


Nocturnal Acquaintances

by edgy_fluffball



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Academy of the Fine Arts, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Grantaire, Café Musain, Classical Music, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enjolras needs a hug, Everyone Has Issues, Grantaire Angst, Grantaire needs a hug, Late Night Concerts, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, Lots and Lots Of Classical Music, M/M, Mentioned Neglect, Painting, Patron-Minette Are A Band, Pining, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Students, Therapeutic Music and Art, Touch-Starved, coffee shops are mentioned, musician enjolras, shadows of the past
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 08:14:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 130,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16193618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edgy_fluffball/pseuds/edgy_fluffball
Summary: The stars were burning in the night sky. The hallways were dark, only lit by the pale emergency lighting above the doorframes. They tinted the hard wood floor and walls green, leaving the rest of the corridor in black shadows. The staircase beyond the glass door across the hallway, on the contrary, was floodlit and drenched in yellow. The harsh light there hurt the eyes of the late passers-by, the single young man who made his way upstairs was squinting against the lamps suspended from the ceiling. He yawned and padded further upstairs, passing one hallway after another, setting one foot in front of the other.Grantaire makes a late night discovery that tips his world upside down as he enters unknown territory.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Finally, I am ready to start posting what has become my favourite story prompt. This is going to be a multichapter-slow burn-angst-feast and I hope the idea appeals to more people than just me. The music pieces I refer to throughout the story are all worth listening to!  
> Beta-read by my darling Bea.

The stars were burning in the night sky. The hallways were dark, only lit by the pale emergency lighting above the doorframes. They tinted the hard wood floor and walls green, leaving the rest of the corridor in black shadows. The staircase beyond the glass door across the hallway, on the contrary, was floodlit and drenched in yellow. The harsh light there hurt the eyes of the late passers-by, the single young man who made his way upstairs was squinting against the lamps suspended from the ceiling. He yawned and padded further upstairs, passing one hallway after another, setting one foot in front of the other.

One of the perks of the lodgings the Academy of the Fine Arts offered their students, were the studios, workshops and rehearsal rooms that were free to use. The close proximity to their living quarters, shared flats under the roof, made it even more desirable to attain one of the rooms that were reserved for students of music, art, sculpting and drama. Every student was assigned a room upon moving in that they were allowed to furnish and decorate according to their preferences and conception. The rehearsal rooms for drama students were in the basement, studios and music rooms on the first and second floor, the remaining two floors housed the rooms they all lived in, each one different. The 19th century townhouse, an old sandstone building with statues on every pediment, was enthroned over the busy street with its shops, ice cream parlours and independent coffee shops, all mainly frequented by the students who lived on caffeine and mania. Throughout the day, the street never stopped moving. It was during the nocturnal hours that it got quieter outside. The busses, cars and people fell silent and deserted the picturesque setting of the academy and the surrounding buildings.

It was easier to work at night, when no-one else worked and no other noise disrupted the cognitive process that was so essential to finishing important pieces. He had needed just a little more time but his eyes threatened to fall close without his permission and he had decided to finish another night. If he would finish at all. He lacked inspiration. The deadlines they were given by their tutors were up for negotiation most of the times but at some point they had to deliver. He needed something to draw, urgently. Instead of focussing on the task at hand, he had worked himself into a drunken stupor, finishing the last bottles of cheap alcohol he had stocked up on in his studio. He staggered towards the next flight of stairs, hands reaching out in front of him to grasp the wooden handrail to pull the deadweight of his body up onto the next step. Everything going on in his brain felt like it was wrapped in cotton wool, his thoughts were neatly stashed away, just about out of reach. Sometimes, he enjoyed the numbness alcohol induced. Sometimes, he hated nothing more. There was no knowing which of the two it would be until it was done, until he had drunk too much to stand straight or hold a paint brush. It angered him because he should know better than behaving like the drunkard he turned into whenever he ran out of luck and inspiration. He disgusted himself and for a moment he had to stop because he could not figure out whether he had to throw up or not.

He didn’t and by the time he reached the next landing he could almost breathe without feeling like the steps were coming up to meet him. The lights were switched on in the corridor to the right. There were a few music rooms down there, he knew because Combeferre had his on this particular corridor where he kept all his cello supplies.

His drunken mind told him to check and switch off the light, if need be. Opening the glass door worked, he was pleased with himself. Grinning, he walked down the hallway, checking the small windows in the doors. The rooms beyond were dark and unoccupied. Of course they were, no other soul in the entire building was as self-destructive and messed up as he was. He cursed himself silently as he swayed on his feet and tried to remember which direction he had come from. The hallways always looked the same, empty wall space superseded the never ending line of dark brown doors, a single table and a wobbly chair that were never used because the music students were notorious for running through the hallways with their heads either bowed or in the clouds without looking left or right before locking themselves into their rooms.

There was music. Somewhere on this corridor someone played the piano. It sounded beautiful. He tried to remember why he knew the melody, where he had heard it before and why there were tears springing to his eyes. A faint memory of garden parties, polite conversation and his mother’s red cheeks forced him to lean against the wall next to the glimmer of light on the linoleum floor, pouring out of one of the small windows. _Schumann_ , he realised, _Kinderszenen_. His mother had forced him to learn them by heart, back when she insisted on piano lessons that were wasted on him. He thought to have developed an aversion for the whole book of sheet music but as he stood next to the closed door, following the melody in his mind, almost humming along. What kept him from it was the realisation that if he heard the piano, whoever played would hear him, too. The person in there went through the whole book, one piece after another; and he listened, his ears strained. Images flurried in front of his eyes, memories of his nanny and the gardener’s son one summer, dancing with him around one of the trees in the orchard. Another, his mother serving a fruity dessert at a garden party and sending him off without it because he knocked over a glass. Despite this, it seemed a good memory.

His drunken brain muddled it all together and when he heard the familiar first notes of _Träumerei_. The piece had been his favourite as a kid and still was, apparently. The impulse took over after just a few bars. He needed to know, he needed to see. The soft, melancholic tune wavered through the hallway, filled with the passion and expressiveness of someone who understood. His brain wanted to know the kindred spirit, the other soul that used the nocturnal hours to practise.

He turned around and peeked through the window, only to see an angel. The boy sitting at the piano was concentrating solely on his fingers on his keys. A few light, curly strands fell into his face out of the ponytail that held his long hair back. They framed his marble profile, accentuated the alabaster undertones of his skin and caused the light reflecting on his sharp features to appear like a halo, glimmering with an aura of immense sadness. His fingers moved over the keyboard nimbly and with ease, fingertips stroking the ivory carefully with every note he played. He was mesmerising in the way his body seemed to curl around the sound he coaxed out of the instrument, every clear note an open love letter to the piece he played and the air that surrounded it. He moved on the piano stool with the gracefulness of an acrobat, simple movements meaning so much more, unknowing that he was being watched through the door. His expression was peaceful and calm, reflecting nothing but the apparent effect the music had on him. He looked vulnerable under the harsh light in the Spartan furnished room. There wasn’t anything but the piano and the stool, no posters or photos on the wall. It made it easy for the secret spectator to concentrate his entire drunken consciousness on the angel playing the romantic tunes with fervour and the passion of someone who knew how it was to feel the solitude and loneliness both late night sessions and the music were prone to induce.

At some point, he must have stopped breathing, his throat closed up and he needed to avert his eyes from the sight he had been drinking in like he usually only downed liquor. The salt of tears stung in his eyes and his cheeks were wet of tears shed without his notice.

The music stopped. After having finished _Kind_ _im_ _Einschlummern_ , a lullaby, no new cue into the last piece followed. It took him a moment to think about what this could mean in connection with the legs of the piano stool scraping over the floor boards, but when the realisation hit, he scrambled to reach the staircase before the music room door opened. His brain, sobered up by the panic and terror of possibly getting caught, worked better now, allowing him to retreat in near silence until he had reached his own flat under the roof. His flatmates were asleep on the living room, they were curled up and entangled with each other. He tried to sneak past them without making a sound, they looked too peaceful to be disturbed. Once he had closed his door, he merely stripped out of his clothes and fell facedown onto his bed. Before he fell asleep, he grabbed his phone and earbuds, pulled up Schumann’s _Kinderszenen_ and closed his eyes.

There was no telling whether this was the eventual reason for the dreams he had after falling asleep. The blonde angel that ran from him, just out of reach, the way he tried to catch him, always barred at the last moment. He did not sleep peacefully but it was enough for him to feel rested when he woke up again.

From the moment he opened his eyes in the morning, he knew something had changed. Colours, shapes and emotions were swirling through his mind, and all of a sudden, his thoughts made sense. He all but jumped out of bed, dressed in one of his paint splattered coats and ran past his two roommates who were having breakfast in their shared kitchen, without explaining why he bolted, clad in only his old work coat over his boxer shorts.

He was finally inspired.

***

‘What the hell is going on?’ Jehan slammed the door shut and strolled through his studio towards the comfortable old divan in the middle of the room and flopped onto the collection of throw pillows that had been gathered there, ‘Explain yourself!’

Grantaire grunted under his breath, not looking up from the canvas he was working on. He could hear Jehan move on the divan, probably trying to find a comfortable position without pushing pillows off it. A deed almost impossible to succeed at, he knew that from experience.

‘I’m talking to you, Grantaire,’ Jehan’s voice grew in volume, their mode shifted, ‘I received a very disturbing message from Joly. At first, I did not want to believe you of all people would possibly storm out of your room in your boxer shorts, but alas, I can see your legs.’

Grantaire turned around, fastening his work coat around his chest, ‘I don’t see how any of it is your business.’

‘Well, you have shocked the poor Joly, apparently. Believe me when I say that message was a joy to wake up to. What happened?’

‘I had an idea that needed to be taken to a canvas. I succeeded, so far and will finally be able to hand something in,’ he wiped his hands at the cloth he kept at his work station, ‘Did they take a vote and send you?’

‘You know they did,’ Jehan let their legs dangle over the armrest, ‘but beyond the joy to see you sober, yet still in a funny state – it is wonderful to see you work out of passion, rather than compulsion. May I take a look? A sneak peek?’

‘Knock yourself out,’ Grantaire turned to his paints, ‘I’m still going to work so don’t get in the way.’

They blew him a kiss before getting up to walk towards the painting Grantaire was working on. He had put it on a sturdy easel since the canvas was bigger than any they had seen him work on before.

‘This is bigger than the last one, isn’t it? It looks different.’

‘It’s just a thought I had,’ Grantaire stepped back in front of the canvas, close enough that his nose almost touched the wet paint, ‘I hope to capture it in all its emotions.’

Jehan’s presence did not bother him. They visited often, whenever they had a spare minute in between rehearsals and their studies. Grantaire had purchased the divan for them in the first place, after they had complaint about having to sit on the ground whenever they visited. The conversations they had propelled his imagination and inspiration more than any spirit or liquor could. He could rely on Jehan’s honest opinion of his work, his criticism, approval or dismissal. With the piece he was working on the pressure was high. He had enormous expectations of himself that were met by Jehan’s opinion most of the times. Grantaire could not tell whether he had captured the emotion he attempted to display correctly, therefore, he appreciated Jehan’s good eye whenever they came by to visit.

They could stand side by side for hours and Jehan would sense when Grantaire wanted to move and make way for him without any difficulties occurring. In this position, Grantaire allowed them to follow the creative process he went through as every stroke of his brush brought more colour and life to the canvas before them.

He tried to capture the dream he had had, the exact sequence that had him leave the apartment in his underwear. One particular image had been burned to his memory; the dreamlike fantasy of an angel, standing at a cliffside, body half turned away from the spectator. The long, golden hair was blown into the marble face by strong sea winds whilst a hand tried to push it back behind one ear, obscuring the face even more than the hair already did. Solely visible, the eyes of his angel looked out of the picture and met the spectator eye to eye, an unspoken question trapped in their expression. Grantaire had spent the first hours of the morning with different sketches of eyes, redrawing and crossing them out until he was satisfied with the outcome. Transferring them to the canvas had taken up a large portion of what had been supposed to be his lunch break but by the time Jehan had waltzed into his studio, he had finished the whole head and got to work on the body.

‘This is magnificent.’

‘You think so?’

‘Upon mine honour I doth swear.’

‘Stop it.’

‘I mean it, R. This painting is taking my breath away. You have outdone yourself – and I don’t even want to know where the idea for this came from. It’s plain beautiful.’

‘That’s the first time I’ve heard you use the word ‘plain.’’

‘Mock me all you like, I hear none of it. I’m in love.’

‘Bit strong, don’t you think?’

The silence that followed his question was only interrupted by Grantaire’s own irregular breaths. Jehan had taken a step back to take the painting in and frowned slightly at the way their friend fiddled with the brush in his hands.

They cleared their throat and inhaled deeply, wincing only slightly at the paint fumes they inhaled, ‘I don’t know where the idea for this came from, R. All I know is that I am looking at a masterpiece. I have seen most of your work up until today so I don’t have to go on about your brush and structure, we know you know you are good. No, the difference is what you do with your brush and structure. You have managed to capture a lonely soul. They are so close, just beyond the canvas, and yet, something is keeping you away and whether it is an external cause or the figure itself is not decisive. They are close enough that you can see a hint of a smile through the hair, past the arm but they keep you away with their eyes. Jesus, R, these eyes are something worthy of special recognition. At first, I thought them to be playful, teasing but now I see the pain lingering behind the surface. It is there, waiting for the spectator to move on to break out in absence of a witness. The playfulness I thought I’d seen is impatience, more likely. The secrets of a lifetime are trapped behind those eyes and no-one there to hear them. It is hauntingly perfect, R, the ghost of an existence beyond the painting still there. You’ve done it, R, I’m bowing to pick up the crumbs under your table.’

Grantaire felt a shudder run down his spine. Jehan, with all their eccentrics and the playfulness of a child, had just about described what he had had in mind when he first got up in the morning, eager to catch it. He tried to stand upright, not give in to a crippling want to bend in half and melt onto the wooden floor. Jehan’s words pushed him out of his comfort zone whenever they felt the need to address his paintings but he had never sounded as sincere and touched as this time, looking at a painting Grantaire had dubbed with the working title _Catch Me I’m Falling_.

‘One thing though,’ Jehan reclined on the divan again, pulling their feet up, ‘They are asking a question and demanding an answer. What is the question? What the answer?’

Grantaire shrugged, ‘I don’t know. They haven’t told me yet.’

Jehan pulled him to sit on the divan and threw an arm around his shoulders, ‘You know, for having painted something so beautiful in just one day you deserve to rest tonight. We could get the gang together and go out for drinks.’

‘Are you trying to say that I’m allowed to get drunk tonight?’

‘That’s what you said. Anyway, who can stop you if you decided to get drunk? I say we go out, have a good time and you can decide how much you drink.’

‘I need to work on my painting.’

‘Grantaire! Are you quite well?’ Jehan slapped their hand to Grantaire’s forehead, ‘No, you don’t have a fever. I can’t believe you are turning down an opportunity to get pissed over a painting. Well, actually…’

They got up and looked at the half finished figure on the canvas, ‘I get it, R. Please be careful, though. Don’t overdo it, not again.’

Grantaire went up to him and offered him a hug. Jehan returned it with a kiss they pressed to his cheek before leaving the studio with nothing but a reminder that he was welcome to join them for a pint. Grantaire hummed, already focussing on the waistcoat he clad his dream vision in. There was work to be done and he enjoyed the rush of inspiration surging through his veins for once. He did not care for booze that night, did not care that he still was in his underwear, did not care that he had not eaten all day. Instead, he felt the obligation to finish the painting as soon as possible. Whilst mixing colours he hummed a melody that he identified as _Kind_ _im_ _Einschlummern_ minutes later. It had gotten stuck in his head, he caught himself whistling it later as he finished the waistcoat and the hands. He tried fighting it by plugging his phone into the loudspeakers he kept on his desk in the studio and playing his own playlist of classical music and operas.

By the time he had finished the figure, leaving only the background to be done, it had darkened. A look at his phone startled him as he seemed to have spent hours more in the studio than he had planned to allow himself. Again, it was past midnight and his phone showed him no less than twenty messages from six of his friends. Most of them asked why he had not joined them at the bar, only Jehan let him know that they hoped he had a good time with his work. They also told him to go to bed before dawn. Grantaire smiled tiredly. Four in the morning had to be acceptable as before dawn, he thought as he cleaned his brushes and stored away the pigment he used. He had done a good job in drawing his angel. And yet, he could not fight the urge to stray from his path. Climbing the stair up to the flats, he tried to take in every little sound that was made in the house. There was little to hear beyond his own steps on the old wooden stairs up into the second floor where he had spent sweet hours of the previous night listening to Schumann’s romantic tunes. He had had no memory of what time it had been, he had been drunk, after all.

He entered the labyrinth of corridors without thinking about it. It was only after passing the first fire door that he stopped to lean against it and catch his breath.

‘What am I doing?’ he muttered, ‘What am I doing?’

He wanted to bang his head against the door behind him, smash the disruptive thoughts and doubts in his mind. His brain demanded the bottle, to be drowned out with liquor and forgotten about for a few, blissful hours. The thought revolted against his wish to get a grip and sort his life out once and for all and it made him feel helpless. He had told Jehan that he felt like there was a strap around his chest that could only ever be tightened. It prevented him from feeling free to do what he liked and had been object of his inspiration quite a few times.

Chopin’s _Prelude in E minor_ floated down the hallway, its careful notes played with utmost melancholia. He pushed himself off the wall just as the melody grew more desperate, a short, fruitless attempt to break the overwhelming sadness surrounding it. It was a short piece, sadness encasing it from the first note to the last. Next was a variation of Brahms’ lullaby _Guten_ _Abend_ , _Gute_ _Nacht_. It had been transposed and filigreed, played soft enough to have him think a single gust of wind would be louder. Following this, Liszt’s _Liebesträume_ seemed almost hopeful in comparison. The clear melody enchanted him and made him feel like he could dance over the corridor. Without looking, he knew which rehearsal room the music came from and who sat at the instrument. Climbing scales and melodies, entangled in each other, topped off with rapid combinations, all set to waltz time, made him feel light headed and coaxed him into sneaking closer. Another set of soft notes made their way into the hallway. They caressed his head, combed through his thoughts and covered those that screamed for destruction and oblivion. Tchaikovsky, his brain supplied, _Song of the Lark_. A memory of his mother at her piano pressed at his consciousness. It had been her favourite son, the first thing she would play for an encore during her concerts, clad in her sparkling evening gowns, the audience enamoured by her play. He had sat in the box reserved for her family, a boy of five years, on display for everyone to see. Everyone had seen him and complimented his mother on the beautiful by in his sailor suit, elderly ladies had given him chocolates and ruffled his dark curls. They adored him as much as they praised his mother’s skill.

She had never seen him up there, a small child with his nanny. He had stopped going when he turned ten, too old to charm possible patrons. His mother had ordered his nanny to give the sailor suit away. Two months later, she was gone as well and he was officially a big boy.

He wiped away a stubborn tear that attempted to embarrass him for his memories. Standing in front of the music room, he had to fight the urge to run away. But this was not his mother, this was a music student who played divine. The sight calmed him. Although he was not able to see much through the small window in the door, he saw enough. He saw the tight lines around his mouth, tense for concentration and focus. He saw the way muscles and sinews moved under the white shirt, and how his fingers danced over the keys. The details that had slipped his mind the night before stood out now, the factor that he played from memory, that he had his eyes closed and that he kept his arms closer to his body than he had ever seen a pianist do. He seemed on edge, despite the beautiful music he played.

He began another Chopin and Grantaire shivered. The _Nocturne_ in C sharp minor, _Reminiscence_. He loved the melancholic intro before the left hand took over the theme, the way the notes were strung together and combined to form one of the most beautiful melodies he knew. He knew the way the theme returned after a short excursion to scale sky-high in semiquaver sequences.

He did not hear them that night. All of a sudden, the discord of a hand being slammed onto the keyboard with almost destructive force. There was a heavy silence that followed this, before a single sound escaped the closure of the room. It was almost inaudible and he would have missed it, if it hadn’t been for his careful listening. The sound he heard broke his heart in an instant for it was a barely strong enough to issue from the room and yet, he could hear it clearly: a sob, broken and half suppressed. His first impulse was to open the door and ask if he was alright. Then he remembered, he did not know the student. He did not know what had happened and why he stopped playing. The blatancy of his circumstances burned in his chest as he retreated, leaving his angel in the darkness of the music corridor and the solitude of the night.

It was only when he shed his work coat to drop onto his bed that he remembered his general lack of clothing. He thanked his guardian angel for preventing him from barging into the music room. There could not have been anything more embarrassing for him to do, no matter how much the other suffered.

He pulled his phone from the coat pocket and plugged it in. Maybe he could craft a playlist from the nocturnal private concerts he helped himself to.


	2. Chapter Two

‘This is a bit loud, don’t you think?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Your music is too loud!’

‘Sorry, I can’t hear you. Music’s too loud.’

‘That’s what –‘

Grantaire paused the music playing over the speakers he had put up on his desk, and turned to face Joly who looked as sour as always, one hand still covering his left ear. He lowered it only after Grantaire had pocketed his phone again.

‘You are ruining everybody’s hearing, if you play your music this loud,’ the disapproving expression hardened, ‘even if you don’t care about your own well-being, there are others living in this house who might need their ears intact. All the music students –‘

‘- listen to a lot of loud music every day, most of which they produce themselves. It is noted, Joly, I will not insult your ears again.’

‘You don’t insult my ears, you ruin them. Do you know how easily one can cause severe hearing loss? It does not take much to –‘

‘Please, Joly, I’m working,’ Grantaire pulled a paintbrush out of his hair only to realise that not only it was the one he had been looking for it an hour earlier but also that it had held up the messy bun he had put his hair up in, ‘Fucking –‘

‘Cursing is considered a first sign of social degeneration,’ Joly chipped in helpfully.

‘Fuck off!’

‘Aren’t you a picture of fair-weather today. What crawled up your ass and died?’

‘Language,’ Grantaire growled and buried his face in his hands, ‘This is just typical.’

Joly stepped forward and looked over his shoulder, ‘Is this the painting Jehan won’t shut up about?’

He pushed past Grantaire to look at the canvas from up close. The tip of his nose almost touched the still wet surface, Grantaire pulled him back by the collar and pointed at the divan. Joly rolled his eyes and took a step back, lifting his hand like a character in a Western movie.

‘What is it? It looks remarkable, unlike anything you have painted up until now,’ he added with a smirk, ‘has someone finally caught your eye?’

‘Oh it is more than that,’ Grantaire cast a glance over a shoulder, ‘the things I would do if I could, and all the secrets I would keep from you and Jehan…’

Joly pretended to throw up but an amused twinkle had found its way into his eye. He watched him paint a few tufts of heather, finally using the brush he had stored away in his hair.

‘This person seems different from others you have painted. It’s more detailed than any of your other pictures.’

‘Thank you. Anything else you wanted to say?’

‘Yes, actually,’ Joly sat down on the divan, leaning his cane against the side of the table, ‘Jehan wants me to force you to join us tonight. We’re going out to celebrate Bahorel’s birthday.’

‘That’s tomorrow.’

‘Yes, but he has to go home tomorrow morning to see his family, so we’re having our celebration tonight.’

‘I’ll be there, if I can make it.’

‘You are going make it.’

Grantaire frowned at the canvas, ‘I need to work and make progress first.’

‘As far as I know, you started on this only yesterday. You have worked so much on it – I heard you come in last night, and the night before. Thanks for trying to be quiet, by the way. You come in after four in the morning and you get up at seven, just to come here and start working on this. I don’t have to remind you of the effects sleep-deprivation can have on the body, do I? You will work yourself –‘

‘- to death, into alcoholism or depression, I know. Are you done lecturing me? I will try and join you. Where are you meeting?’

‘The Musain. Could you please change into some normal clothes, if you’re at it?’

Grantaire looked down at his pyjama bottoms peeking out from under his coat and the paint splatters on his bare feet. Joly had a point, he had rushed to get to his studio, omitting to get dressed properly for the second time in two days. Instead of answering his roommate, he continued working.

‘Get Éponine to be there,’ Joly got up slowly, ‘and eat something before you join us. I have better things to do than dragging your drunk ass home.’

Grantaire threw him a lazy salute before returning to mixing paint together to obtain just the right colour he needed for his heather. The door clicked shut behind Joly. The brush found its way back into his hair as he put the speakers back up on the desk, plugged his phone in and restarted the playlist he had put together. The soft tunes of Chopin’s piano pieces helped his fingers bring life to what his head wanted to put on the canvas, soft strokes of a brush pieced together as plants, flowers, waves beyond the cliff. He was almost satisfied with the result by the time he thought about Bahorel’s birthday party again. Reluctantly, he cleaned his brushes and sorted his desk out. The young man in the painting seemed to watch him, piercing blue eyes never leaving his back whilst he worked in quick, efficient silence.

He skipped the music corridor on his way up to the flat he shared with Joly and Bousset. With no indicator for their presence, Grantaire could walk through the flat freely whilst looking for a clean shirt. When he found one, he was almost sure it was not his but he put it on anyway since he did not want to waste any more time. Shooting Éponine a message, he closed the door to his room and walked past the already closed kitchen door; Joly would not know whether he had eaten, anyway. After checking his wallet for cash and stuffing his keys into his pocket he left the flat and skipped back downstairs. This time, he stopped for a brief moment to listen to the multitude of melodies and instruments interweaving on the music corridor. He recognised a trombone, several string instruments, a clarinet and a flute as well as quite a few pianos. It formed a mess of tunes and melodies, bounded by the walls of the corridor. For a moment, he stared down the corridor, not daring to actually enter because there was no way he could stand in front of one particular music room without being noticed. Just as he moved to go on downstairs the door across from the spot he had returned to the night before opened. He saw a young man waltz across the hallway and disappear in his angel’s room. Grantaire gulped back the surprise that hit him when his brain recognised him. There had been a party, Jehan’s annual summer fête, if he remembered correctly, and he had spent some time discussing Synaesthesia with him. His name was Courfeyrac and he had claimed to know at least two people living with the phenomenon. Although Grantaire had not believed him he had admitted that the academy would be a place you would expect people who saw music in colours.

The _Musain_ was full of students when he arrived. He pushed at the crowd at the bar to order a few drinks, looked at Éponine’s response on his phone and went on to look for his friends and join them eventually. They had secured a corner booth at the far end of the parlour and yelled loud enough to silence everybody around them. Grantaire sat down next to Joly and Bousset, reached across the table and patted Bahorel’s shoulder.

‘Éponine had to work. You’ll get your hug at midnight,’ he grinned and downed the first of his drinks, ‘What have I missed?’

‘A whole lot of PDA,’ Jehan screamed, ‘Joly and Bousset must have pre-partied in your flat.’

Grantaire rolled his eyes and shoved his roommate, ‘I knew I should have checked! If there are empty bottles all over the kitchen again –‘

‘Would that annoy you that much? You drink all the time.’

‘Point taken, but I do not leave empty bottles lying around. It’s always going to be this way, right?’

Joly gifted him with a drunken grin before turning to his other side to resume making out with his boyfriend. Grantaire tried to get Bahorel’s attention but remained unsuccessful. He had finished his second and third drink before he knew it, justifying it with the need to catch up with his friends. A hand was placed on his arm before he could down the fourth.

‘You seem distressed. What is going on, R?’ Jehan removed their hand once they had his attention, ‘I have seen you tense and anxious but this is new.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘How long have we known each other?’

‘Two years, why?’

‘Have I ever needed a reason to worry? Did I ever worry without reason?’

‘You were worried the caretaker’s dog may have been ill that one time. It was fine.’

‘Yes, and it died not a week afterwards. We have talked about this.’

Grantaire met his friend’s stern look, ‘Alright, you have your hunches and they usually prove to be true. What are your hunches telling you now?’

‘That you are miserable. And I can’t stand it. Is the painting messing with your head?’ they moved a plate of chips closer so that Grantaire could reach them, ‘Eat and spill. We have another hour until we’re toasting Bahorel, I want you in a better constitution then.’

Grantaire pressed a quick kiss to their cheek and stuffed a few of the chips in his mouth, ‘You know how I’m…gay?’

‘Yes, I think all of us are aware of that,’ Jehan sipped their beer, ‘Good start, R, way to make me feel like your parents.’

‘They never cared and anyway, it’s too late now.’

‘I know. You were saying?’

‘My gay ass found something. Someone. There is a music student who stays up about as late as I do. He practises until early morning and I have spent the last two nights in front of his music room to listen to him playing the piano. He looks like an angel and I know all the pieces he plays. Somehow, you listen to him and you feel the raw emotion behind the score. He plays Schumann, Chopin, Tchaikovsky, Liszt, the romantic ones. The sad ones. I don’t think he is happy.’

‘His choice in music doesn’t mean he isn’t –‘

Grantaire interrupted them, ‘I heard him cry last night. He was playing a _Nocturne_ , Chopin, but all of a sudden he broke it off and stopped. I heard him, Jehan, he was definitely crying. Nobody that talented and beautiful should feel like crying.’

‘Is there a difference between your muse and other people?’ they stirred their cocktail with a straw, ‘Don’t give me that look, R. I’m not stupid, of course this is the person you modelled your painting after. If he looks half as good as you painted him, I can understand your infatuation, dear friend.’

‘You don’t – I don’t – he is good, you know? No wrong note, not one finger misplaced, the essence captured. I cry out of self-pity because I am a drunkard, a disappointment to anyone who knows me, because I cannot hope to ever be happy since I scarcely remember what it feels like. But he should not feel that way. He doesn’t deserve it, I’m sure of it. I would gladly take on his unhappiness, I am used to feeling the weight dragging you down as it is. A load more would not make a difference, if he could live without it then.’

‘Oh honey,’ Jehan pulled him into a hug, their eyes welling up, ‘we talked about self-deprecation. No use in it when you’re talking to me, I know your demons better than they know you. I am sure you taking on his troubles would make you happy for a moment, but imagine the following: you get to know him. Introduce yourself. Don’t go like a bull at the gate, tell him you heard him play and it moved you. Offer him your friendship. I know you think you don’t deserve it but as your friend I can say that you do. And anyone deserves your friendship, with all the idiosyncrasies. You can help people only when they know you. And believe me, even if he turns out to be straight as a pole, you will emerge a friend richer and in the position to have helped someone.’

Grantaire did not know what to reply. His head was swimming, tears obstructed his vision and Jehan’s arm around his shoulders burned. He rested his heavy head against their shoulder in attempt to calm himself down. Their hand moved, weaving into his hair and carefully scraping his scalp. Grantaire felt the strap around his chest as prominent as the night before, but it seemed to allow him to breathe almost freely. His skin crawled with the sensation of Jehan’s hand touching him, he felt his body relax and become putty in their hands.

‘You are worthy of love and adoration,’ Jehan whispered in his ear, ‘and I will not stop telling you that until you believe it.’

Grantaire found their other hand and gripped it tight, ‘You are without doubt masochistically inclined, if you volunteer to reassure me of something I cannot accept. It’ll be a long time before you give up, I am sure of it.’

‘Never give up something worth fighting for,’ their fingers massaged his head, keeping a headache at bay, although Grantaire doubted they knew about the lingering pain that waited for anything that would let his guard down, ‘and that you are, R. Worth it, I mean.’

‘Hear, hear,’ Joly slurred and tilted towards them, ‘are we building a cuddle pile for R?’

Grantaire shoved him off, ‘Jehan’s mine tonight.’

‘Shouldn’t Bahorel be the one getting cuddled?’ Bousset looked up from the empty glass in his hand, ‘Am I forgetting something?’

Grantaire checked his wrist watch, ‘Two minutes, then we shall cuddle him to death.’

Bousset nodded and returned to look at his glass. Bahorel turned out of the conversation he had had with some drama students who had seemingly asked him for a sculpture they wanted to use in one of their productions, only to laugh at the pile his friends built.

‘I really cannot take you anywhere,’ he reached over the table and patted Jehan, seemingly with the force of a bull since Grantaire could still feel it.

‘Happy birthday,’ he mumbled from under Jehan’s arms and cast a glance at his friend, ‘sorry about the lack of a hug but I seem to be preoccupied.’

A moment later, Jehan had pulled Bahorel into their pile.


	3. Chapter Three

‘I meant what I said,’ Jehan gripped the lapels of Grantaire’s coat and straightened them, ‘Every single word.’

‘Thank you, Jehan. Have a good night.’

He turned away from the flat Jehan shared with Bahorel, intending to make sure Joly and Bousset had actually found their own room and bed before passing out. His head was still filled with thoughts he could not place. The door to their flat was open, as expected. Joly abandoned all care once he had gotten drunk, tripping and stumbling, forgetting his cane only to wake up in pain in the morning. It got only worse from that point onwards, the prospect on spending a night with Bousset made him almost carefree. The irony of Grantaire cleaning up after their drunken escapades went amiss amongst the many empty cans and bottles in their kitchen and living room. Instead of lying in bed, hearing the squeaking of old springs under the weight of two men, Grantaire opted for flight, took his blanket from his room and made his way downstairs. The divan in his studio seemed so much better equipped than the room adjoining the one Joly where was making all sorts of noises. What made his studio even more appealing was the presence of his painting and the possibility to work on it for a bit longer before falling asleep.

Since he started on the painting, he had taken to actually locking his studio. None of the other art students seemed to do it and he didn’t either. Usually. But with the tall canvas in his room and everything it meant to him already he felt safer with the door bolted and locked whenever he was not around. Unlocking the door to enter felt like opening up a treasure trove each time, seeing the painting propped up on the easel filled him with pride. He dropped the blanket on the divan and got to work. He had not yet figured out what mood the picture would be set in; all about his young man demanded a calm, light sky but the emotions he tried to convey screamed and tugged at him to give them dark, threatening clouds, a storm brewing in the distance. As it was, his young man would not see it approach since he was half-turning to evade the spectators glance, hiding behind his hair and arm. Lost in thought, Grantaire put up his hair with a brush and sat down on the divan to look at the picture. He took his phone from the bag he had taken from his room and plugged the speakers in. There was a time for melancholy Chopin and Schumann and it was after midnight in a dim art studio, with no other soul around to hear him or complain about the volume. Not that anyone upstairs heard what happened on the ground floor.

He hummed along to the _Song Of A Lark_ , wincing only slightly every time the memory of his mother tried to push past the carefully constructed shields he had put up to avoid these moments. So far, fifteen years had proved to be sufficient enough. Whenever the tides washed up a piece of his past, he pushed it back down. The liquors he kept in a cabinet in his studio helped whenever he felt their power grow too strong for his mind. He uncorked a decanter of his favourite brandy and took a swig from the bottle, relishing the way it burned in his throat. His phone’s shuffle mode picked something by Schumann next, he hummed along as he mixed a few greys, black and white to get started on the sky, gulped down more of the brandy and washed it down with whisky from another bottle. A night when Joly got laid and he chose the studio over his bedroom was no night for wine and contemplation.

He got around to painting a few wisps of clouds before a yawn threatened to dislocate his jaw. Reason demanded he lie down to take a nap before continuing the work on his sky. The divan seemed to grin at him as he washed his brushes and stored the paint away. His back was in for a bumpy ride, he knew as much from experience when he lay down.

‘Everything okay in here? I heard a noise…’

Grantaire all but fell off the divan in the hasty attempt to get up and turn to face the door. There, squinting into the darkness of the room, stood his pianist. His hair was loosely tied with some kind of ribbon but a few strands had still manged to escape their bond.

He cursed and scrambled to grab the linen sheet he used to cover his paintings when he was not around. In this case his heart had jumped into his throat, pleading that he may not yet have seen the picture. He managed to throw it over the easel just in time before the strip light at the ceiling flickered to life.

‘Oh goddammit, no one uses that,’ he tried to shield his eyes from the harsh light, ‘what’s wrong with you?’

He slammed his hand over his mouth to keep the words from getting out, thereby leaving his eyes unprotected. The blindingly bright light hurt them so much he stumbled back onto the divan to pull the blanket over his head that had covered him until moments prior.

‘I know all these stupid art students leave their studios unlocked all the time but you really shouldn’t be here,’ the sound of steps coming closer to the divan startled Grantaire, ‘even if you are just trying to prank whoever works in here.’

The blanket was pulled away. Grantaire, having anticipated it, kept his head low and tried to reach the lamp on the table that he had bought and placed there to have warmer and better light to paint during the late hours of the night.

‘This is not the best hideout I have seen,’ despite everything, he sounded amused, ‘Honestly though, what are you doing here?’

‘This is my studio,’ Grantaire found his voice somewhere underneath the blanket, sat up and fumbled for his phone under one of the cushions, ‘so you are the one who should answer that question, really.’

‘Pardon?’

‘This is my studio. I’m the stupid art student who doesn’t lock when he’s in here to work.’

‘You work in the darkness?’

‘Yes. No. Not tonight. I’m sleeping here.’

‘Why?’

‘My flatmate is getting laid. Well, both of them. Together. Sorry, I’m not making sense,’ he reached for the bottle of brandy on the table.

‘Let me get this straight: this is your studio and you work in here late at night but tonight you are also sleeping here because you fled your room?’

‘Yes.’

Having the person who had inspired his latest piece of art in his studio, just a few feet from said work of art, was rather unnerving and made him feel twitchy. Grantaire swallowed down another gulp of liquor before getting up and crossing the room.

‘This light is too harsh for the nights, that’s why I keep the other lamp down here,’ he switched the strip light off and buried his hands in his pockets, ‘why are you even down here?’

‘I don’t sleep well. Sometimes, I just wander through the corridors. It’s all better than listening to my flatmate snore. He snores off-key and it’s rather annoying.’

‘How does one snore off-key?’

The other blushed under the blonde hair covering his face. A restrained gasp escaped Grantaire, and for a moment, all he could think about was getting another glimpse at how his painting would look like if placed in the reality of the moment. Neither of them said a word. Grantaire tried to make himself smaller, he was not comfortable with having this unannounced visitor in his studio because as much as he liked looking at him, he preferred it to be through glass from afar, not from up close. In fairness, his visitor did not seem to feel at ease himself. He had mirrored Grantaire’s motion of stuffing his hands in the pockets of his trousers and looked around the room with the feigned interest of a person out of place.

‘Do you –‘

‘I’m –‘

They shared a careful smile, motioning for the other to start again.

‘I’m Enjolras.’

‘Grantaire.’

‘As in –‘

‘Yes.’

‘Your…’

‘Mother.’

‘No way.’

‘Every way.’

Silence. Enjoras smiled cautiously, wringing his hands.

‘You’re a music student.’

‘How did you –‘

‘You know my mother,’ Grantaire tried to hold his gaze but felt too nervous to keep it up, ‘plus, I think I saw and heard you in a music room the other night.’

He congratulated himself for getting something like the truth out eventually. Enjolras blushed again. Grantaire noted that he liked the sight.

‘Right. Makes sense. I practise at night sometimes when I can’t sleep.’

‘I paint when I can’t sleep.’

Silence.

‘I did not know anybody else worked during the night,’ Enjolras pushed a strand of hair behind his ear; it slid back the second he removed his hand.

‘Me neither. Hearing you was a welcome surprise.’

‘Really?’

‘I liked it. I like the Romantic era and you play brilliantly.’

‘Thank you. I haven’t seen any of your paintings but I’m sure they are brilliant, too.’

‘What makes you say that?’ Grantaire gawked at him.

‘You got one of the bigger studios. One of my friends studies art and he always says you get assigned rooms by talent.’

‘I shouldn’t be surprised, if it was like that. It’s a disgrace.’

‘Agreed. I will henceforth have to accuse you of somehow cheating to get this room,’ a slight smile was hidden in the corner of his mouth.

Grantaire shrugged, ‘Is there anything I can do to keep you from saying that?’

‘You could show me something you painted to prove that you deserved the room,’ he pushed his hands into the pocket of his hoodie and gave him a challenging look, ‘I promise to remain impartial.’

‘You already admitted to having an art student friend who most certainly has one of the smaller studios on this corridor. Your argument is invalid. I should have to call you a bad friend or at the very least a liar, if you now professed your admiration for my work.’

Enjolras’ eyes began to gleam whilst Grantaire spoke. Something about his stance changed, his slightly gangly limbs seemed tenser and his face set.

‘I assure you there will be no reason for you to dismiss my judgement like that. I am capable of remaining unbiased, even when someone I happen to know is involved in some wider context.’

‘Well then,’ Grantaire crossed his arms over his chest but he smiled, mirroring Enjolras, ‘they put one of my pieces up in the staircase.’

‘You mean to say that I have been walking past something you created without ever knowing I might get to know the artist,’ Enjolras seemed to consider his next step, ‘Show me, then. I am curious to see which of the paintings is yours. Which floor are we heading to?’

‘Oh I will not show you. You have a good look at all the paintings on the walls and tell me which you think is mine. It shall make the ordeal more interesting for me.’

For a moment, Enjolras looked like he was about to refuse. Then, he crossed the room only to turn back around at the door, ‘You coming?’

Grantaire scrambled to his feet, abandoning the brandy on the table. He made sure to lock the door this time and followed Enjolras in the hallway. They switched the light in the staircase on and Enjolras cleared his throat as he approached the first painting. He cast a glance back over his shoulder, to him. Grantaire felt his heart miss a beat. His palms were clammy and he felt the sweat on his forehead. He brushed his hair back with one hand, his fingers were shaking as he watched Enjolras take in the picture. A crease appeared between his eyebrows as he focussed on it.

‘Not yours. I doubt you would paint a poodle.’

‘Not yours either, too much yellow.’

‘Who deems this worthy of a spot in the staircase? It looks like a child painted it with crayons.’

‘I would be deeply disappointed if you turned out to be the sad soul that paints the dean in his birthday suit.’

‘Please tell me you know who painted this. It’s hilarious!’

‘I know this one. The friend I talked about made it.’

Grantaire made a mental note to remind himself that Enjolras knew Feuilly. He had met him once in a seminar and still admired his capability. Feuilly had made a name for himself by drawing on fans, combining paper and silk work.

They had almost reached the music floor when Enjolras stopped mid-complaint. His gaze turned soft as he nodded and pointed at the wall, ‘This one.’

‘How do you know?’ Grantaire climbed the last steps to stand next to him, ‘You are right but I’m interested in your thought process.’

‘It breathes you,’ Enjolras replied, ‘It’s full of unspoken secrets and hidden emotion. I figured it suited you.’

Grantaire had painted the place he associated most with whatever he would call home. His _Playroom_ looked as if the child occupying it had just left, leaving a few toys and a board game on the floor. A cuddly toy oversaw the colourful disarray from its post on the windowsill. He had tried to recall what the room had looked like immediately after he was called to dinner, when he had left it, abandoning his toys to run downstairs, and before Nanny had tidied up. The room he had painted had a purpose, it was light-filled but abandoned in the moment and shadows cast behind the chaos of just used playthings but no one there to play with the toys. A shiver ran down his spine and he wished for the brandy he had left in his studio.

‘Thank you,’ he rasped out and turned his back to the picture, ‘my tutor wanted to put it up. I still don’t know why. It’s nothing special.’

‘It’s better than the poodle,’ Enjolras shrugged, ‘you definitely deserve the big studio.’

An easy smile danced over his features, tempted Grantaire to blurt out something stupid and lit up the hallway. It did not reach his eyes entirely and Grantaire swallowed hard.

‘I have to get back to my easel, I had an idea. I should put it onto canvas,’ he rambled for want of an alternate idea, flaying his arms about whilst feeling the anxiety in his stomach build up.

‘Go then,’ Enjolras gifted him another smile, ‘and feel free to drop by my music room whenever you can’t sleep!’

‘Likewise,’ Grantaire choked out before he ran off, back to the safety of his studio and the painting hidden under a blanket.


	4. Chapter Four

He slept in late until Jehan woke him up whilst trying to find out whether he was still alive in the afternoon. The divan had demanded its toll. His back and shoulders hurt, he could barely move his head, and the dark circles under his eyes had only darkened. Jehan had brought coffee and something to eat and they settled on the divan to dip croissants in their coffee mugs and eat the soggy pastry. Grantaire needed twenty minutes to wake up before he talked about the previous night. He knew Jehan tried to appear calm but they squealed with joy once he had reported back to them.

‘He discovered your painting after taking one good look at your brooding self? This is magic, R, don’t you see it? He likes your art, you like his music – what else is there to be said?’

‘A lot more,’ Grantaire sighed, ‘it all appears so different by daylight. Maybe we were never meant to meet and talk, maybe I should have been in my room with a pillow over the head to drown out Joly and Bousset. Maybe I ruined it all. I was good with listening to him play and watching through the window –‘

‘- like a creep,’ Jehan interrupted and bit down on their croissant, ‘Stop second-guessing everything. I’m sure it is alright, give it time. Nothing really important like that happens just over night. Also, there’s a rather big elephant in the room, I’m afraid.’

They motioned over to the painting Grantaire had finished after running off the night before. The grey to black tones of the sky complimented the fair appearance inspired by _Enjolras_. He had not yet been resigned to having a name to go with the figure he had attempted to catch on canvas.

‘There is something hidden in this,’ Jehan sighed heavily, ‘If only I could figure it out. You have hidden both question and answer in his expression but neither you nor I know him well enough to judge.’

Grantaire stared down at his hands in his lap. He had awoken feeling the strap around his chest more prominent than ever and every fibre of his body seemed to yell at him to do something about the feeling that made his skin crawl. As always, he did not dare to act on it. Instead, he talked a little more about Enjolras and the time they had spent together throughout the night. He told them about being accused of pranking himself, Enjoras blushing and him admitting to have listened to him play before. Jehan squealed again and dropped their croissant onto the table to reach Grantaire for a bone-crushing hug. They patted his head in the process but as always, the hug ended long before Grantaire had been able to absorb the feeling it presented him with for a moment. He smiled shyly.

‘I’ll have to hand it in, don’t I?’

‘Is it finished?’

‘Yes. The paint had plenty of time to dry.’

‘Then, I’m afraid, handing it in is what you need to do to receive a mark. I’m sure you’ll finish top of the class with this one. No one else can come even close to this.’

Grantaire swallowed, ‘I don’t want to, I think. This is even more personal than _The_ _Playroom_. Or the portrait of Joly I had to paint for my portrait class. And that was painted whilst I thought I had a crush on him.’

‘Didn’t that crush turn out to be focussing on the shade of his waistcoat instead of himself?’

‘Pearl green, yes,’ Grantaire blushed with the memory coming back to him, ‘Listen, I still have the time to paint something different. I could just…’

‘What? Any inspirational ideas coming to you? Even you have to meet deadlines eventually and I doubt your professor would appreciate a desultorily painted picture of something you don’t care for. Remind me of the unofficial academy slogan?’

‘ _Whatever you do, do it with passion_ ,’ Grantaire rubbed his forehead, ‘I know. But this painting…I will have to transport it over to the offices.’

‘I’m sure Bahorel would love to help, he should be back by now. I could help. Ask Joly and Bousset. Wrap it up and ask your angel of music, for all I care.’

‘Nice reference,’ Grantaire looked over to the easel and sighed again, ‘tell me one thing, Jehan, I beg you: do you think I overdid it with this painting?’

Firm hands were placed on his shoulders, his head forced down to meet his friend’s stern gaze, ‘Grantaire, that’s enough! You painted something so eerily beautiful that I snuck a photograph of it to make Bahorel cry tonight. If it wasn’t yours and of a person you obviously admire, I would ask you to sell it to me after you get it back from marking. Because you get it back, R. You won’t lose it forever, that’s not how grading works!’

Grantaire moved slightly under their hands. Jehan scrutinised him, one thumb rubbing the spot where his shirt ended and his sore neck became visible.

‘Today is a bad day, isn’t it?’

He nodded.

‘Slight change of plan: I’m going to call Bahorel. You wrap up that painting and we’re going to deliver it to your professor. Afterwards, we take you back to our place, you change into something comfy and we’ll watch movies for the rest of the day. We can invite Joly and Bousset. Sound good?’

The prospect of a movie marathon with his best friends seemed the best imaginable alternative to hiding under a pile of blankets without feeling a real effect. He nodded weakly and pressed a kiss to Jehan’s wrist before getting up. They already had their phone in the other hand, he could hear them talk to Bahorel as he fixed the sheet over the canvas and fastened it with packthread.

Jehan gave him a thumbs up. They waited for Bahorel who could have transported the painting easily on his own but Grantaire was not going to let him, and Jehan tagged along for the fun of it. The walk to the lyceum took them ten minutes, waiting for Professor Lafayette another ten.

‘Grantaire, I see you have brought me something? Let me see, my boy,’ the elderly man rubbed his hands as he walked towards them, ‘Good day, Bahorel. How are the chances to see you in another of my classes?’

‘Not high, Monsieur. I have taken the course on collages.’

‘A pity. I hope you still work hard without me breathing down your neck. And Prouvaire, how splendid to see you here. I have never seen a more convincingly melancholy Hamlet in my life!’

‘Thank you, sir. I modelled them on Grantaire here,’ Jehan nudged their friend, eyes glinting.

‘A good choice of model,’ Professor Lafayette laughed and unlocked his office door, ‘Come in, my boy.’

Grantaire followed him, carrying his painting the last steps. He set it down on the easel his professor kept opposite from his desk and untied the thread.

‘What will I be looking at?’

Every student of Lafayette’s knew the drill. Before he even looked at the painting, they had to summarise what they had painted and something about their intention and inspiration. Grantaire cleared his throat and fumbled with the linen.

‘This came to me in a dream, so to speak,’ his voice betrayed him and cracked, ‘I know it sounds cliché and kitschy but I don’t know how else to describe it. I tried to capture the feeling one might experience when looking at a sea in turmoil. Then, I added a person. No, to be honest – the person was first. The sea came later. I captured them in a moment, vulnerable and alone yet clear to see and shy under the look of the spectator.’

‘I’m intrigued, Grantaire,’ Lafayette clapped his hands, ‘Well then, my boy. Show me this piece of yours.’

Grantaire pulled the sheet off the canvas and stepped back to allow the professor a full view on it. He swallowed hard against the lump that had formed in his throat. It was one thing to show this painting to his friends who barged into his studio without doing as much as knock to announce themselves, quite another to show it to his art professor, a specialist in Realism and Impressionist Realism who would grade it using internationally canonical assessment criteria. Lafayette had schooled his face into neutrality, he got up and stepped closer to the easel. For a few minutes, he did not make another sound. Grantaire studied the posters on the wall, Lafayette had put up a picture of a piece of Doctor Who trivia at some point, a picture meant to be painted by Van Gogh in one episode. None of the freshmen ever expected the seventy-year old art professor to be a Sci-Fi nerd.

‘Good work, my boy,’ Lafayette stepped back, ‘Expect the official results sometime next week but hear me when I say, you have outdone yourself. I am proud to call you my student.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Remind me, how many of your paintings have found their way into the residence and the hallways of the lyceum?’

‘Four, sir.’

‘Four…four…that makes all your exam works? You are in your fifth term, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Do you have a title to go with that?’

‘ _Catch Me I’m Falling_ , Sir.’

‘Wonderful. And fitting, if I may say so. Well then, results sometime during the next weeks, I am proud of you and I have lost Bahorel as my student. An exciting day, wouldn’t you say?’

Grantaire nodded sharply and bowed before saying his goodbyes and leaving, something he had started in his first term. Lafayette had never complained about it, if anything, it supported his status as an eccentric original.

‘How was it? What did he say?’ Jehan jumped off Bahorel’s lap and in his face, ‘He loved it, didn’t he? Do I have to kill anyone?’

‘No, Jehan, everything’s alright. I’ll get the results next week.’

Bahorel got up, ‘Are we going home? Jehan mentioned a movie marathon.’

‘Apparently, yes.’

Jehan had furnished their and Bahorel’s flat with every string of fairy lights they had been able to find. The first thing they did after entering was not putting their keys away but switching on as many of them as they deemed appropriate for the situation. They had asked Joly and Bousset to join them and the giant corner sofa in the living room had been transformed into a monstrosity carrying every blanket and pillow they owned between the five of them. Jehan assigned Grantaire a soft toy, a grumpy looking teddy bear with a bow tie.

‘First movie suggestions?’

‘Disney,’ Jehan jumped onto the sofa after having Grantaire forced into the corner.

‘Star Wars,’ Bahorel joined them on Jehan’ side.

‘We haven’t seen Harry Potter in ages,’ Joly sat down on Grantaire’s other side, pulling Bousset next to him.

‘We’re watching whatever Grantaire wants to see, this is for him,’ Jehan scooted closer to the corner Grantaire was squished into.

‘As if I don’t know what happens when you sit around me like that,’ Grantaire smiled, ‘Can we watch _Mulan_?’

Jehan kissed him on the cheek and moved even closer as Bahorel put the DVD in and started the movie. They loved the movie and Grantaire, thankful for their commitment, sat under the pile of blankets and felt Jehan’s hand on his thigh. Joly had all but prescribed him the cuddle evenings to ease the internal pain that determined his everyday life and suffering. It did not heal and end it but it helped. They had sat together, a few weeks into their first term after Jehan and Joly had found Grantaire recovering from a panic attack. His friends had begun to do everything in their power to help him through the bad days. And even though blankets and pillows did not fill the void in his days, it helped to know that he had friends who would allow him to seek their closeness. It helped fight back the urge to drink himself into oblivion every time he woke up with a feeling of dread and nausea.

They watched the first movie in silence. Grantaire got increasingly entangled with Jehan’s legs under the blanket, Joly had wrapped his arms around his upper body and pulled him into his lap. Bousset held a box of tissues in his hands since one of them would cry at some point and Bahorel took it upon himself to distribute drinks and nibbles, being the one seated closest to the kitchen. Joly’s breath ghosted over Grantaire’s neck, he could feel his best friend mouth the dialogue against his skin and it sent shivers down his spine. Joly’s grip around him only got tighter in response to it.

‘You okay?’ he squeezed his shoulder and put his head on top of Grantaire’s, ‘You tell me when you need me to do something differently, okay?’

All of them knew that there were boundaries to what they could do. Since their usual group was made up of two couples and Grantaire, they switched it up quite a bit but in the end he would still long for more. There were things he wanted to feel and experience that would strain his friends too much.

‘Jehan mentioned you handed in your painting,’ they waited for Bahorel to change the DVD and Jehan to bring some cookies from the kitchen and Joly combed his fingers through Grantaire’s hair, ‘did Lafayette say anything?’

‘Said I’d outdone myself,’ Grantaire mumbled and cleared his throat, ‘I guess that’s good.’

‘Not only that,’ called Jehan from behind the kitchen island, ‘he met his muse.’

‘You talked to him?’

Grantaire shrunk back into the couch, ‘We met last night. He’s nice.’

‘Tell them his name!’

‘You got his name?’ Joly almost tore Graintaire’s hair out in the attempt to free his fingers quick enough to grab his wrist and force him to turn, ‘You didn’t even say! What is he called?’

‘None of your business.’

‘Unusual name, parents are really going crazy with imagination.’

Bousset choked on a gulp of coke and Joly had to give him a slap to the back. Grantaire used the distraction to slip into the bathroom. It all seemed so domestic. Sometimes, when the anxiety got the better of him, he imagined his friends having movie nights without him. The premise of double dates seemed perfect for Jehan and Joly who had actually talked about going once or twice.

Grantaire tried to calm himself down. He yearned for his brandy, for the short bliss of inebriety, for the way his head would stop rushing for some time before the destructive thoughts returned. Drinking was not a possibility for the situation he had gotten himself into, he knew that without Jehan’s reminder or the post-its Joly left for him around the flat. His friends were used to his brooding and ever changing moods but he still wished he could alter his being into someone more amicable to make it easier for them to be their usual selves around him. He knew they were treading lightly around him, always making sure not to stress him out or trigger him. They cared too much.

‘R, are you alright in there?’ Jehan’s voice was muffled by the door between them and Grantaire blinked away the tears that had gathered in the corner of his eye, ‘We’re ready for the second movie, if you are.’

‘I don’t think I can stay for much longer,’ he cleared his throat and opened the bathroom door to find himself face to face with Jehan, ‘I am tired.’

‘Sleep-deprivation?’

‘Long nights painting, yes.’

‘R, you need to take care of yourself.’

‘I’m trying.’

Jehan hugged him with all the force they could mobilise. Their expression mirrored Grantaire’s own restlessness as he pulled back.

‘You can always come talk to me, you know that, right?’

‘It’s nothing out of the ordinary,’ Grantaire turned back towards the living room, ‘still what I told you two years ago. There are boundaries and limits to what you can do for me. I need to find something that fills the gap.’

‘I stand by my words from back then, you know? I am sure a platonic relationship would do wonders for you. It’s all you crave but nothing more than your inner recluse could bear. Your terms, right?’

‘And I told you, how can I just do that? It would have to be a person I trust myself with, how am I going to find somebody like that? I can’t just try online dating again. Not after what happened last time, it scarred me for life. I can’t just go on a first date and tell them that I am in need of extensive grooming and cuddling. People like to separate partners from pets.’

‘You do have a flair for the dramatic, are you sure I can’t recruit you for my next play?’

‘Any idea what you might be doing next, Jehan?’ Joly reached across the sofa to pull Grantaire back into the corner, ‘Someone said you had borrowed every copy of every Christie book in the library.’

‘They were right,’ Jehan sat down and shoved a steaming mug into Grantaire’s hands, ‘I am looking for a Poirot novel I can adapt for the summer term. Drink your hot chocolate, R. What are we watching?’

‘Some French movie Joly had on his Netflix list,’ Bahorel answered and tucked his partner into his lap, ‘Do you have another mug of hot chocolate?’

‘Sorry, just for Grantaire. He needs it, he’s lovesick and stressed out.’

‘I’m okay,’ Grantaire shot Jehan a look, ‘Just haven’t slept very well.’

Joly possessed the decency to blush and hide behind Bousset. Grantaire rolled his eyes and shook his head, ‘Don’t worry, I slept downstairs. Contrary to what you might believe, I am quite good at assessing certain situations.’

‘You slept in the studio again? You know it’ll ruin your back,’ Joly frowned at him, ‘do you need a massage?’

‘Not tonight,’ Grantaire doubted he would last long under the touch of two hands on his back; he was more likely to start crying again, ‘I’ll get back to you about this offer though.’

Joly’s movie made Jehan cry, prompting Bousset to ball up tissues and throw them at them. Grantaire reached for the bowl of crisps on the table in front of them and took a handful before passing it to Bahorel. Feeding Jehan anything had proven to be an effective enough means to make them stop crying.

‘I haven’t forgotten,’ Joly seemed to be half asleep by the time the movie finished, despite it having been one he had wanted to watch, ‘I still want to know about your muse. You know I’ll find out. I have connections.’

‘We know that all people you talk to at the academy are sitting right here in this room,’ Bousset kissed his temple and pulled him into his arms, ‘please don’t fall asleep, I can’t carry you over the hallway and you don’t walk right when you’re tired.’

‘R can help you.’

‘R is fidgeting around too much. He’d drop you.’

‘So will you, Bousset,’ Bahorel pushed himself off the sofa, ‘We should call it a day. Jehan, you need to sleep, Joly needs his bed and we have hopefully restored hope for Grantaire.’

He carried his partner into the bedroom, Jehan waved at their friends and made a soft noise before beginning to snore blissfully. Bousset rolled his eyes and tried to move Joly off his chest.

‘A hand, R, if you don’t mind?’

Grantaire caught both of them before they hit the ground. Manoeuvring Joly into their flat proved to be a task they needed four hands for, but as soon as he was safely tucked into his bed, Grantaire took off again. Too many thoughts filled his head and he hoped he would be able to clear them out with some time spent doing something that was neither watching movies with couples or painting something that would come back to haunt him. He packed his sketchpad, pencils, charger and earbuds into his messenger bag, took a water bottle from the fridge and grabbed his keys from the key rack. There needed to be one stop before he could even think about taking an evening stroll to find something to sketch, the bottle of Scotch in his studio tempted him enough for him to know that he would not walk past the door.

Bousset stuck his head out of the bathroom when he walked past, ‘Hey R, just…take care, okay?’

‘I will. See you in the morning,’ Grantaire tossed his bag onto his bag, ‘take care of Joly.’

‘Always.’


	5. Chapter Five

Somebody had left a sculpture at the foot of the first flight of stairs. It happened all the time, sculptures and paintings were left for interested parties to take because the creator either had no space in their studio or just did not like the finished product. They never stayed out for long, someone always seemed to like the style. He had put something himself, a series of landscape and building sketches that he had rushed to finish for a professor. After one night without sleep, too much coffee and little to no idea what to work on, his only wish had been to never see them again.

Jehan had put them up in the hallway of their flat like the good friend they were. They also pointed out the sketches to anyone visiting, making sure they knew who had drawn them and that he was a friend of Jehan’s. In revenge, Grantaire had not drawn them the flowers they would have liked for their birthday. It had freaked Jehan out and given him the satisfaction he had craved.

As he passed the music corridor, he felt like he was missing an opportunity. The lamps in the staircase were still switched on, the time switch turned the light off at eleven. It was earlier than any time he had come even close to the glass door before. Just out of curiosity, he told himself as he pushed it open. He heard two melodies coming from the far end of the hallway. One seemed to be a solo piece played by a clarinet, soft and solemn, the other a surge of piano notes, waving towards him like a rousing storm casting a spell he fell under as soon as he heard it. The velocity of the successions of sequences, the raw power of the themes and the brute expression of anger, desperation and frustration washed over him, caught him unaware and lured him closer. Just by the way the piano keys were near destroyed he knew what sight was waiting for him. The emotionality he had so far heard only in melancholic tunes and romantic collectedness had erupted and made way for raw feelings Grantaire could taste on the air as he neared the door. He breathed it in like a drowning man taking the first breath after surfacing, salvaging the way it got caught in his throat. It was almost too easy to get drunk on the feelings he filtered out of the air, forgetting the booze in his studio and how he had wanted to wander off-campus to sit, drink and sketch without meeting a soul.

It all seemed to fade into nothing as he made his way towards the too familiar door, trying to compose himself into something that did not resemble an addict, no matter which substance caused it. Enjolras did not seem a person endorsing substance abuse of any form, not even getting high on his musical expertise. He straightened his loose shirt around the strap of his bag over his shoulder. A trembling hand tried to push his hair back and flatten it where strands stuck out, coaxed out of their proper place by the contact with Jehan’s sofa and Joly’s shoulder. Deep down he knew that any attempt of making him presentable would backfire and make it worse but he had to try, if he was going to take the last step over the edge that had kept him safe until Enjolras had barged into his studio.

He reached the door and stopped. The melody was still soaring and sweeping, rolling and raging against the closed door and beyond. The single ceiling lamp illuminated the figure sat at the piano. His long, slender fingers danced over the keyboard, hitting the keys with the accuracy of a trained eye and quick thinking. Not only that, his whole body moved along to the notes succeeding each other rapidly, swaying on the piano stool. He had not closed his eyes this time and there was sheet music on the rest in front of him that he was focusing at. The warm light let his hair shine and cast shadows on his face where it hit his cheekbones, vesting him with an air of the dramatic, almost ghostly. Others may have seemed like they were hacking the piano, Enjolras seemed to pass it off as effortless and entrancing, fingers carrying the tune and backing with ease. The force behind the notes did not harm his touch, it echoed back from the walls around him, filling first the music room and then, as it was not stopped, the hallway. Grantaire soaked it in and allowed the emotions behind the piece to take him over for a moment.

He knew it by heart, the one piece of classical music his mother had never wanted him to play. The hatred she possessed for it, caused by the unorthodox manner of style and open feelings throughout the composition had been enough for him to actually rehearse it. Beethoven had appeared a kindred spirit whenever he sat down at the grand piano in the salon when his parents were not around to hear him. He could easily pretend to have practised something entirely differently when they came back. However, even though he felt connected to Beethoven on a spiritual level, he could not will his fingers into playing the _Sonata in C-Sharp Minor, Mondschein, Third Movement_ flawlessly. He got confused, his fingers hit all the wrong keys and he eventually stopped playing altogether.

Hearing Enjolras play the piece perfectly would have made him cry, if he had not been entranced by the sight in front of him. Instead, he marvelled at his style, how he hit the notes just right, either soft or hard, calm or with the might of a thunderstorm that just waited to break free at his wrist. There was a power hidden inside him that was at his beck and call, enabling him to channel whichever emotion he wanted to display.

The melody climbed high only to fall and pick up in pace a little before culminating in a flutter of trills and squiggles. A last chord resounded through the hallway and sent shivers down his spine. The silence following was deafening, his ears still filled with the melody. It took him a moment to regain his breath, as he stared through the small window pane and tried to think of something to say. Unfortunately, his hands seemed to respond differently to experiencing Enjolras play, knocking at the door before his mind caught up. The pianist turned around, saw him through the window and smiled, walking towards the door.

Grantaire said a quick prayer and braced himself for the unknown.

‘Grantaire, what a pleasant surprise. I didn’t expect you to drop by so soon,’ the smile spreading over Enjolras’ cheeks was perfectly radiant, blinding almost.

‘I wanted to take a walk but then I heard you play and I didn’t want to miss a single note,’ Grantaire combed his hair back and avoided the blue eyes watching his every move, ‘It’s a change. I hadn’t heard you play something so passionate.’

‘Did you enjoy it?’

‘Very much. You are talented enough to charm halls of elderly women into throwing roses at you,’ Grantaire winced internally at what had supposed to be a joke, only realising how stupid it came across once it was too late, but too stubborn to alter it or apologise.

Enjolras blinked at him, mouth slightly agape, ‘Thanks, I guess. Are you going to take your walk now?’

Of course he did not want Grantaire around after his comment on charming old ladies. He had just crossed a line, belittled his achievements and skills. He had insulted him with nothing but a heedless comment. He cleared his throat and took a step back.

‘I…I don’t know. I think, yes. There is…some whisky in my studio I was going to take with me. The night is still young and I might end up somewhere by the river. There is a bench down there I am quite familiar with –‘

‘Why –‘

‘You’re right, I don’t know why I am telling you all this, sounds pathetic. I should get going. Goodnight, Enjolras,’ Grantaire turned on his heel to leave.

A hand grabbed his wrist and stopped him from getting away any further. He looked over his shoulder to see Enjolras, illuminated by the light pouring out of his music room. Grantaire’s brain, sleep-deprived, lonely and sombre as it was, only came up with the picture of an angel on a stained glass window in a church to compare him with. He seemed flustered.

‘That is not what I meant. Do you always jump to conclusions? I wanted to ask whether you wanted to come in. I might practise for a bit but it doesn’t look like you have that much to do otherwise. We could even go for that walk together, later on.’

‘I don’t – I’m not good company. I don’t talk, I’m disagreeable and rude. I argue too much and I’m not good with people. You don’t want to invite me in,’ Grantaire shook his head, avoiding Enjolras eyes.

The hand disappeared from his wrist and he immediately mourned the slight contact they had shared. Enjolras’ palm had been warm and comforting against his skin that felt colder to him than it really was. It had helped to feel something on his skin. He could only imagine how Enjolras looked at him, standing in the hallway in front of his music room like the pathetic stalker he was. There was only one reaction imaginable, never seeing the betrayal and disgust in Enjolras’ eyes as he realised the mistake he had made when first talking to Grantaire.

‘Stop the pity party and get in.’

Enjolras went back to his stool. He sat down at the piano and rested his fingers against the keys, closing his eyes and struck one, testing the note for a long moment.

‘Close the door, will you?’

He hurried to get into the room and closed the door behind himself before looking around. The rehearsal room was bigger than he had expected it to be, based on what he had been able to see through the tiny door window. The blind spots had covered the huge, maroon velvet armchair, a small bookcase and a table with a kettle on it.

‘Help yourself to some tea,’ Enjolras smiled and played a short étude by Chopin, fingers dancing across the keyboard, ‘would you leave out a cup for me as well?’

‘Sure,’ Grantaire looked through the boxes of tea bags and picked one that seemed to have been used the most, with only three bags remaining. It was a colourful Lemon & Ginger tea that smelled spicy and mouth-watering. He chose to make a cup of cinnamon tea for himself after discovering that Enjolras kept a box of the same brand as Jehan.

‘Smells delicious, mixed together,’ Enjolras leaned back, stretching before getting up from the stool, ‘do you have any requests?’

‘Requests?’

‘Yes, anything you would like to hear?’ Enjolras smiled, relaxed and calm, no sign of their conversation in the hall left as he took the cup of tea Grantaire had brewed for him, ‘Any favourite composer? Favourite piece? Favourite era?’

Grantaire swallowed, the memories of the nights he spent in front of the rehearsal room flooding back to him. He tried to shove them down again but a part of him wanted to know what it felt like to be in the same room as him when he played with the passion he had sensed throughout the nightly concerts.

‘I do like Beethoven, Tchaikovsky and the Romantic era,’ Grantaire took a sip of his hot tea, feeling the cinnamon smooth his throat, ‘anything remotely emotional will get to me.’

Enjolras did not break the eye contact as he cleared his throat and shifted on his stool, ‘This certainly strikes me as a Beethoven night, don’t you think?’

There was a smirk hidden in the corner of his mouth, as if he knew something Grantaire did not get. Whatever it was, it lit up his face. Enjolras set down his mug on the piano and cleared his throat. The first three notes he played sent the next shiver down Grantaire’s spine. The combination of a G, C sharp and E, etched in his mind like the memory of the shape of his favourite birthday cake, did not fail to impress him, the clear melody carrying on so little but resounding within his every bone. He knew from experience that the piece had a tendency to drag, if played without the right mode of expression and touch, both of which Enjolras not only possessed but deployed perfectly. The yearning tune did neither overshadow the sombre chords accompanying it, nor did it fade into the background. After having heard the _Third_ _Movement_ earlier, Grantaire had almost hoped to enjoy listening to the remaining parts at some time. He had not expected to get to hear the _First Movement_ of the _Mondscheinsonate_ that night, yet there Enjolras was, playing with the air of an actual god.

Grantaire opened his bag quietly and got his sketchpad out. There was an opportunity he could not allow himself to miss, not when it was staring him in the face. What harm could one pencil sketch cause? He tasted the raw desperation in the air again, the purest feeling he could think of, filtered out of the sheet music and transformed into beautiful tunes. It needed translation into applied arts. He made quick work, crafting a rough sketch with determined pencil strokes. The quick glances he took, eyes flicking over to the figure at the piano and back down to the slowly forming sketch on his pad. Every line, soft or strong, turned into a part of something bigger, more beautiful. It had nothing on the real thing, obviously, Enjolras looked too good in the soft light, hair obscuring his face slightly, eyes half-closed and focussed on the keys under his fingers. The scene was too perfect for Grantaire to be there. If he was to look for one word to describe it, _Perfection_ would be the obvious choice. It was something he did not think of with himself in the picture. Having the chance to catch the scene and put it down in a sketch seemed too good to be true, so he hurried to get it done before it passed and left him wishing it back.

A knock interrupted him mid-line and Enjolras mid-bar. The door opened to reveal a curly head poking in. Grantaire, having looked up when the door swung open, pulled his legs up onto the armchair by instinct to guard himself and his sketchpad. He recognised the face frowning at Enjolras. It was the guy he had talked about Synaesthesia with.

‘What are you doing? Are you still here, plunking tunes? You promised to go to bed before midnight and you really need a full night’s sleep, you know, eight hours and everything.’

‘Courf, not now,’ Enjolras looked through some sheet music on the piano.

Courfeyrac, right. Grantaire was proud to have recognised him, there had been alcohol involved, after all. Too much alcohol, he had barely remembered to drink some water when he got home. So Enjolras knew him, too.

‘Now, Enjolras! You are acting like a child and neither Ferre nor I have the nerves to force you into bed. What are you even doing in here late at night?’

‘Having tea, practicing and probably staying up with the other nightowls.’

It was at this that Courfeyrac looked to the side and noticed Grantaire, ‘Hey, what are – aren’t you that art student? We talked at a party once, didn’t we?’

Grantaire nodded and pushed his pencil behind his ear. He did not know what response Courfeyrac may have expected so he chose not to say anything.

‘Make sure he gets to bed soon, okay? Anyway, I’m done for the night. Switch the light off when you leave,’ Courfeyrac slammed the door shut.

‘I’m sorry,’ Grantaire heard himself say, hands still holding his sketchpad, ‘Are you sure it’s okay for me to be here?’

‘Hell yes,’ Enjolras turned to face him completely, ‘Courf is just a bit dramatic. We share a flat and both of my flatmates think they have to babysit me. Ridiculous, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Just because I like coffee and don’t need to sleep at ridiculous times they think I am a human disaster. Time is a construct anyway!’

Grantaire could not prevent the grin spreading over his face, ‘I’m sure you’re more eloquent with a good night’s sleep.’

Enjolras glared daggers at him, ‘You really should be careful what you wish for. I could talk you into the ground over a coffee.’

‘Probably not a good idea. I think Courfeyrac might kill me, if I tempted you with coffee,’ Grantaire returned his eyes to his sketchpad.

Enjolras huffed out a laughter and pushed a stack of sheet music to the side, ‘I had some Chopin somewhere. I’m positive I had this book with short pieces for training.’

He got up and came over to where Grantaire hastily closed his sketchbook, crouched down in front of the bookcase and perused the spines of the books and booklets he kept there. Grantaire tried to ignore the way he could almost feel the warmth radiating from him, choosing to lean back a bit to calm himself down.

‘Ah, there it is,’ Enjolras held out a booklet in triumph and got up, ‘The best thing about this is that I don’t really have to focus. The pieces are easy enough to have a conversation at the same time.’

‘A conversation? Why?’

The look he received confused him. Enjolras’ hand was lifted and he almost touched his shoulder before he obviously changed his mind and returned to the piano, setting the booklet down on the rest. Grantaire knew the piece immediately.

‘ _Prelude in E-Minor_. Good choice,’ he said before he could stop himself, ‘I loved this one when I –‘

‘You do know your Chopin,’ Enjolras beamed at him, ‘Courtesy of your mother?’

‘Of course,’ Grantaire forced a smile, tucking his sketchpad into his bag. The topic was not one he would have liked to continue talking about with a sketch of Enjolras in his lap. He would have liked to stop talking about it entirely but Enjolras seemed too excited to even recognise the dread in his eyes.

‘This is great, you know? One of the first concerts I went to was one of your mothers’. I had just started to play and I wasn’t that good, I didn’t want to practise because I always felt like I was disappointing my parents with every note. But then my Dad took me to your mother’s concert and somehow got me to meet her afterwards. She gave me the sheet music for the evening and signed it for me. Of course, she had not used it, what pianist does…she also said not practising for a day isn’t a mistake, it relaxes the brain. I was in the seventh heaven when we came home and I put the sheet music on my piano and started to practise. I was six years old and I felt the urge to play Rachmaninoff –‘

‘ _Romantic Russians_. She loved that programme,’ Grantaire chipped in, the memory of his mother’s smile as she was seated at the piano vivid in his mind, ‘she talked about you, unless there was a small angel after every concert she played.’

These were cruel words to say, he knew so himself but Enjolras laughed it off. How could he do anything else, not knowing what Grantaire felt in this moment? For him it was just another happy memory.

‘I got to meet her again, you know? Last year, she was here at the academy for the dean’s summer concert. She endowed a scholarship for talented students of the academy; music, art, sculpting and drama. I went up to her and asked her about the Rachmaninoff concert. I was overjoyed when she actually remembered me. I would have guessed she would have forgotten this snotty, fairly rude six year old from fifteen years ago.’

Grantaire forced a smile. His mother had had her personal assistant call him the year before to let him know that she would not be available to look at his part of the exhibition at the dean’s gala. He had delivered his pictures there and gone home again, not bothering to even look around. Jehan and Joly had cut their own time there short to get home before he could drink himself into doing something stupid.

He reminded himself that Enjolras did not know that. His mother had been kind to him, had helped and motivated him and the memory of the encounter seemed to have borne fruit. He could not allow himself to judge Enjolras on this account alone, he knew his mother’s faces best. She had been a presence looming over him for the longest time. In some way, he was glad she had been an inspiration to someone else.

‘She does value her fans,’ Grantaire managed to say, ‘I’m glad you were able to meet her.’

‘She’s my idol,’ Enjolras crossed his legs on the piano stool, ‘who’s yours?’

Grantaire felt his mouth fall open. There was a question he was not prepared for. He cleared his throat and sat up straighter.

‘I’ve always liked van Gogh,’ he eventually got out, ‘Monet as well.’

Enjolras nodded seriously, ‘I thought so. Your painting showed similarities to impressionistic techniques. They blend well with newer possibilities, don’t you think?’

Grantaire smiled, ‘I am trying to create new takes on old techniques. My paintings are supposed to look impressionistic at first but the longer you look at them, the more realistic they get. It’s hidden between the strokes and lines, it could be something exciting. I call it _Impressionistic Realism_ , my professor thinks I should start a school.’

‘You should, it sounds amazing!’ Enjolras leaned forward, waving his hands about excitedly until he overbalanced and fell off the stool, ‘I wish I could see more of your paintings. I looked at the one in the hallway again by daylight and it looked even better. Did you paint your nursery from memory?’

‘It seemed a good idea at the time. The lighting is completely messed up, I would never paint it like that again,’ Grantaire lifted an eyebrow, ‘Are you okay?’

‘I think so, I might have bruised my hip but I’m fine. I don’t think I should sit, though. Do you still want to go for that walk?’

Grantaire nodded and took his bag, ‘I’ll still get that bottle of Scotch.’

Enjolras frowned and buried his hands in his pockets, ‘It’s a weeknight. The effects alcohol has on you are not to be underestimated; every gulp of it destroys your brain cells and you lose control over your movements, articulation and restraints.’

‘I’ll still drink it,’ Grantaire felt his throat close up. He did not know Enjolras well enough to admit that he needed the buzz to eventually fall asleep sometimes, to banish the demons waiting for him to go home only to slip into his bed, whispering into his ear about failure and desperation. He could not tell him.

‘Fine,’ Enjolras spat out and walked past him, coat slung over his shoulder, ‘get your booze.’

They did not talk until they had left the building, turned onto the road leading towards the river and crossed the main street. A single man came their way, walking his dog. He nodded a silent greeting as they crossed paths, his dog sniffing at Grantaire’s leg before moving on.

Grantaire took the first swig out of his bottle when they reached the esplanade. The familiar burn in his throat surged through his body, relieving him of the urge to do anything else but drink and enjoy the feeling of a growing haze. He gulped down another mouth of whisky.

‘Do you know how quickly Scotch will get you drunk?’ Enjolras’ voice sounded softer than in his rehearsal room, maybe even a little bit worried. It upset him that he might feel obliged to take an interest in his turmoil.

‘Don’t worry, I can hold my liquor,’ Grantaire smiled bitterly.

‘You drink regularly?’

He did not have an answer pat, instead, he drank more whisky and walked next to Enjolras in silence. A few ducks, awoken by their steps on the gravel, quacked tiredly before tucking their heads deeper under their wings. The river gleamed under the moonlight, silvery patterns projected onto the surface by the current. It seemed magical, a scene for fairies dancing or elves frolicking. Grantaire felt the prickling in his fingers that meant he wanted to capture the scene in a painting. His fingers started shaking with the urge to hold a pencil, draw up a sketch of the scene. He had not felt that way about painting since –

‘This looks beautiful.’

\- Since he had painted Enjolras, his angel of music, the muse at the edge of a cliff, not seeing the storm brewing behind him. He knew his ways around greys, knew what reaction and sentiment they were associated with. One of his second term courses had been about the depiction of emotion and states of mind, Grantaire had been assigned Depression. The following three months had been made up of one grey fading into the next. No surprise, his thunderclouds had reflected the results of the studies he had conducted.

‘Hey, are you listening?’

Grantaire took another swig of his Scotch before shoving the bottle into Enjolras’ hands, ‘I need light.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Light, I need light!’ he rummaged around in his backpack, retrieving his sketchpad, ‘Where do I have it – where is my fucking –‘

‘Do you need your pencil?’ Enjolras looked at him, a smile lingering in the corner of his mouth.

‘Yes, goddammit.’

‘Let me help you,’ he leaned in, brushed a strand of hair to the side and plucked something out from behind his ear, ‘Is this the one you’re looking for?’

He held out the pencil he had tucked behind his ear before they left the academy building. Grantaire flinched, taking a step back in surprise and dropping his pad because his fingers refused to keep their grip around it. The whisky he had drunk suggested he had felt an electric shock but he calmed his troubled mind quickly. Scotch was tricky like that. He sucked in a breath and chortled out a laugh, a sad attempt to disguise the jolt that had gone through him.

‘Yeah, thanks. Hold my phone,’ he switched on the torch on his phone and shoved it into his free hand. He crouched down to pile the pages together that had slipped out. The rough sketch he had drawn earlier had landed a few feet away from him. A cold shiver ran down his back when he heard the gravel scrunch under a pair of shoes.

‘Did you draw that? It looks good,’ Enjolras picked it up and studied it before facing him, his smile a little more guarded than before, ‘Is that my piano?’

Grantaire grabbed it from his hand and shoved it back into the pad, securing it on his thigh, ‘Hold the phone, I need to see what I’m doing.’

Enjolras complied without another word. His arms and hands were steady enough to provide Grantaire with unwavering light for the quick lines he drew. It was going to be a rough sketch, a draft to be turned into a proper painting some other time. He felt himself exhale, easing into a more comfortable pose, as far as possible. His left knee protested against being propped up on the ground but he ignored it, making quick work of the draft before the moment passed. Drawing the last lines, marking where the moon made the water sparkle, felt like an initiation process.

‘Done,’ he was out of breath, just from sketching. On another day, he would have been embarrassed but he had created something that had the potential to be beautiful and carry the memory of the night, ‘Whisky.’

He held out his hand for the bottle to be passed along, his throat dry and yearning for the burn. It did not happen. Instead, he heard the gurgling of liquid sloshing. He looked up, squinting against the phone torch. Enjolras grinned down at him, lowering the bottle from his lips. A single drop of whisky ran down the bottleneck, Grantaire chose to watch as it made its way down over the label, instead of seeing how Enjolras licked his lips to chase the taste lingering in the corners of his mouth.

‘You didn’t just -?’ Grantaire gawked at him, mouth hanging open, ‘You scolded me for drinking just a few minutes ago.’

‘More like an hour,’ Enjolras sat down next to him, ‘You were in the zone, I didn’t want to interrupt. So, yes, I drank some of your whisky.’

‘Some? Half the bottle is gone,’ Grantaire laughed, nudging him in the side, ‘Did you like it?’

‘Tasted expensive. Do you always throw away the money other people have earned?’

‘I guess you mean the money I get from my parents to fund my studies,’ Grantaire sighed, ‘I’ll have to disappoint you, then. They pay one half of my rent, everything else is my business. The only money I’m spending is my own.’

‘Oh, so they want you to stand on your own feet?’

‘You could call it that.’

Enjolras made another grab for the bottle and threw his head back to swallow another gulp of whisky. His throat worked and his eyes fluttered close for a moment. It was a sight Grantaire would have liked to hold onto, commit it to memory or draw it. It felt like a frenzy when he was with Enjolras, his mind was overflowing with ideas, inspiration and themes. Every second seemed to be the outline for another painting he could do, he could not draw drafts of everything he wanted to commit to his memory to be finalised in his studio. It felt better than any drunken state he had gotten himself into but something still insisted on the booze.

‘Grantaire?’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you want to do this again?’

‘Do what?’

‘Come to my rehearsal room, sit, talk. You seem like someone with a quick mind and I think we could have some inspiring discussions.’

‘I would only infuriate you,’ Grantaire chuckled, ‘I tend to have that effect on people. Well, most of them were too focused on their own opinion to see that they handed me the way to talk them into defeat on a silver platter. You wouldn’t like arguing with me.’

‘I beg to differ,’ Enjolras smiled, hands buried in the pockets of his coat, ‘I mean it. I rarely sleep more than four hours a night and spend more time at the piano than in my bed. Since you said you were up as well, we could just meet up, I’d practise and you can draw. It doesn’t sound too bad, does it?’


	6. Chapter Six

It sounded like a brilliant idea, if he was being honest. He was contemplating it whenever his mind made a run for it, whilst he served luxury food to elderly couples, carried trays of wine and champagne glasses in between tables and smiled until the corners of his mouth hurt. Usually, his shifts at the museum ended when it closed to the public but with the opening of a new exhibition taking place after hours the curator had asked the guides to clean up and help out with the catering. Grantaire had tamed his curls begrudgingly with a scrunchie and some pins, put on a freshly ironed suit and walked around with a tray almost glued to his hand. He did barely listen to a word anyone said to him, making his way through the crowd miraculously without messing up or tripping. His mind was too busy contemplating shiny black wood, fair curls and twinkling eyes whilst also calculating the mixture of colours that would make a painting sparkle without using glitter or silver pigment.

‘Good evening, Grantaire, fancy seeing you here,’ an empty champagne flute was placed on the tray in his hands, ‘Did you enjoy yourself so far, still satisfied with the job?’

‘Good evening, Professor Lafayette. I do enjoy the exhibition openings a lot, thank you. Have you made your way around the gallery already?’

‘I have but I might have to return to be led through it again by a decent guide. There is only so much you get out of the descriptions. Any recommendations, my boy?’

‘There are quite a few guides who are deployed for the special exhibit in particular,’ Grantaire set down the tray for a moment, ‘I would offer my expertise but I am more at home at any time before nineteen-thirty. You know, the actual opening hours.’

‘Of course you are,’ Professor Lafayette watched him gather a few empty glasses from a nearby bar table, ‘Anything else on your mind tonight?’

‘No, sir, everything is alright.’

‘Any questions you might have, anything I should know about the exhibition before they let the public in?’

‘You got me the job here, isn’t the curator one of our better-known alumni?’ Grantaire blinked a few times as a thought struck him, ‘Are you…bored, sir?’

‘Out of my brains, Grantaire. Are you allowed to talk to guests for prolonged periods of time?’

‘I should think so. It is in our contracts that we may use these events to socialise. Plus, I filled in on short notice.’

‘Well then, socialise. Is there anything I can help you with?’

‘I was wondering how I could get a painting to sparkle like water under light would.’

Professor Lafayette thought for a moment before looking up at him, his wrinkly face stretching with a smile, ‘ _Diamond_ _Dust_ , my boy. It’s not pigment in the traditional sense but can be used like glitter. It would certainly add a modern touch to any painting it is used on. What are you thinking of using it for?’

‘I went down to the river a few nights ago and the moonlight danced on the surface. Every ripple, every current left an imprint, not for much more than a second but in all its evanescence and fast-moving nature lay a beauty I had to try and catch,’ he coughed, trying to get rid of a forming lump in his throat discreetly, ‘I have been carrying around the draft, would you – would you mind taking a look at it?’

He glanced around the room but everybody seemed to have a champagne flute and nibbles at hand. His boss nodded briefly, allowing him to take off the tie he had been forced to wear in order to blend in with the other caterers. He took it off and handed Professor Lafayette the folded piece of paper he had kept in the pocket of his waistcoat. The old man unfolded it and looked at it. After a few seconds, he handed it back to him, his clear eyes following the careful movements with which Grantaire folded it up and out it back in his waistcoat.

‘Did you catch them?’

‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t seem to grasp what you are saying.’

‘I’m asking whether you managed to catch that beauty you saw by the river,’ there was a wink, small enough for Grantaire to think he’d imagined it for a moment, ‘It must be a wonderful thing to see so clearly what inspires one’s best work. The painting you handed in a few days ago is one of the best you have presented throughout your whole time as my mentee. I would very much like to put it up for the Dean’s Award. Now, is that Mrs O’Meara I spot over there? You will have to excuse me, my boy, this lady has a special air about herself that must be admired at any given opportunity.’

‘You will probably find that you are looking at Professor Mamarque, sir.’

‘My good boy, you are right,’ Lafayette patted his arm, ‘even better!’

‘Have a good night, sir,’ Grantaire took his tray back to the small kitchen where the caterers had found refuge, dropped it off and let his boss know that he would be going home.

It did not take him long to walk back to the living quarters, a few drops fell from the dark sky and burst open on impact with the asphalt of the street so he quickened his steps to reach the old building before the downpour could set in. Instead of heading upstairs, he turned into the art corridor and unlocked the door to his studio. He needed to calm his nerves, make sure that he had not left anything important out where it would possibly get damaged, see to his brushes and convince himself that everything was in its proper place. He lifted the sheet off the canvas on his easel, an attempt to catch the waterfront in its darkness, a reminder of a night he still thought might have been either a dream or too much whisky, somehow incomplete. Except, the bottle of his favourite Scotch was nowhere to be found and should be with Enjolras, if he remembered correctly. He had been going on about something like him not being responsible enough to handle alcohol on their way back to the academy. It still came to Grantaire through a gentle fog whenever he tried to remember exactly how he had gotten back to the house. All he knew for sure was that Joly had threatened to kill him if he ever stayed out for as long as he apparently had. His best friends had insisted he go to bed earlier for the next few nights, not succeeding of course, Grantaire did listen to neither him nor Jehan when it was about going to sleep at a normal hour.

He settled on the divan with a bottle of brandy and stared into the darkness of his studio. The quiet riot inside him died down with every gulp of alcohol he swallowed down. Professor Lafayette’s smile had been genuine, almost encouraging. Grantaire exhaled shakily. If he put him up for the dean’s award, chances were his mother would be invited to attend the ceremony again. If he won, she would have to see him and his work. A shudder ran down his spine. It sounded too good to be true. In fact, he was sure she would rather disappoint the dean than turn up to acknowledge that her son had done well with something that was not classical music. She had tried, he gave her that. He still could play several instruments, sight-read and arrange music. He may not have enjoyed it but it brought about childlike exaltation when he recognised a music piece and its composer just by walking past a rehearsal room.

Internally cursing, he pushed himself to his feet, grabbed his bag and switched the light off before locking the studio door. He had had an epiphany of sorts and he wasn’t sure how much of it was induced by the brandy in his blood, so he chose to seize the opportunity to follow through on it. The slim chance of failure was one he was willing to risk as he climbed up the stairs and shoved the door open. A few instruments were still being played, a clarinet, a string instrument, some timpani and a few pianos. He looked into the rooms whilst he walked past them; Courfeyrac practised Mozart’s _Clarinet Concerto_ , a student with his back to the door he believed to be Combeferre played something by Bach on his cello and a girl he had never seen before flailed at the timpani.

Enjolras performed Beethoven again. _Piano Sonata No. 17, ‘Tempest,’_ his brain supplied. He allowed himself a moment to watch his fluent movements, the way his upper body swayed in time to the music, the smoothness that seemed to ooze into his every touch. Grantaire felt a courage he had not felt in years as he quietly opened the door and slipped into the room. He managed to curl up in the armchair without Enjolras looking up or even opening his eyes. He took his sketchpad out of his bag and opened it to the sketch of the pianist he had started a few nights previous. Pencil in hand he got to work, trying to capture the easy nonchalance Enjolras conveyed when he performed. Beautiful successions followed each other, fingers slid over the keyboard, hitting the ivory carefully until a last scale ended in a clear chord. Grantaire held his breath and stilled his pencil but Enjolras, now with his eyes open, took a booklet from a pile on his grand piano, opened it and turned a few pages.

One short glance had been sent towards Grantaire in the worn armchair but he had missed it, trying to keep his head low. It proved to be a test when Enjolras hit the next notes – B, D, F sharp, another F sharp an octave lower, D, F sharp – his breath hitched in his throat and he tried to focus solely on his sketch. In this moment, he was convinced, Enjolras had read him like a book and picked the single piece of film music that was capable of bringing Grantaire to his knees. He had never mentioned it to anyone, maybe Jehan being the exception, but _Once Upon A December_ may as well have been his Kryptonite. The irony was not lost on him, as he was constantly hunting the pale memory of times gone by, experiences that may have been dreams, turned indistinctive over long years.

Abruptly, the song ended, in the middle of an especially soft and careful part where it sounded like Enjolras had merely caressed the keys. The piano stool scraped over the floor and then, just a second later, Grantaire felt a hand on his shoulder.

‘Are you alright?’

He had started to cry without noticing, as if there had been a plug that had been removed, allowing him to pour it out. Grantaire wiped at his eyes angrily; betrayed by something so small and simple he wished to both continue and stop at the same time. Some of the pressure that had haunted him for days, since he had first seen Enjolras sit at his piano, seemed to dissolve in the tears that trickled down his cheeks. He felt stupid for crying like this, without a sound passing his lips, drops falling onto his hands that were still holding on to his sketchpad and eyes blinking furiously against the veil of tears that obscured his vision. There he was, after sneaking into Enjolras’ room, crying over something he barely remembered, ruining everything.

‘Grantaire, do you want me to walk you to your flat?’ Enjolras sounded calmer than he had expected, not angry and disgusted, ‘I thought I’d play something entirely different today, I’m sorry if I hit a nerve with it. Let me get you upstairs, okay?’

The hand on his shoulder moved and patted him awkwardly on the back before wandering down his arm to grasp his hand and squeeze it, ‘I mean it, Grantaire, let me take care of you, you seem a little rattled.’

He pulled him to his feet, put Grantaire’s bag over his shoulder and budged him out into the hallway before locking up. His arm steadied Grantaire who leant onto him and tried to move his feet when required. Enjolras did not ask any questions as he scaled the stairs with him as deadweight by his side. Only when they reached the living quarters did he turn to ask softly, ‘Which flat is yours?’

Grantaire moved to open the door, only to be beaten to it by Joly who opened it from the inside. Apparently, Jehan had spent the evening at their flat because it looked like Joly had been about to see them off. When they saw Grantaire, eyes red and swollen, bag over Enjolras’ shoulder and tear stains on his skin, they moved to allow him to enter. Joly took over, managing to steer Grantaire into the living room. Jehan stayed behind with Enjolras.

‘What happened?’ Joly frowned at Grantaire as he made him sit down on the sofa, ‘I thought today was a good day.’

‘It is,’ Grantaire shuddered at the sound of his voice, ‘Enjolras played _Once Upon A December_. I couldn’t help it, Joly, I’m pathetic.’

‘Oh honey,’ Jehan came over to sit down next to Grantaire and hugged him, ‘You are not pathetic! You are incredibly smart and talented, you had to go through some shit but that doesn’t define you. I’m sure Enjolras didn’t know what that song means to you. Look at him, he’s paler than you are right now. Do you want to leave him hanging there?’

Grantaire wiped at his eyes again and looked towards the door where Enjolras still stood, hands deep in his pockets. He seemed to try and hide the glances he cast around the flat. His eyes rested on a few of Grantaire’s sketches and pictures Joly and Bousset had put up at the kitchen and living room walls for a moment. Overall, he tried to look inconspicuous. Jehan smiled at him and waved him closer, seeing as Grantaire still tried to get his breath back and stop crying.

‘Are you sure –‘ Enjolras started but Jehan just scooted over to make some space for him to sit next to Grantaire.

‘Just hold him for a moment, I need to do this according to the protocol,’ they got up and went into the kitchen to start on tea and hot chocolate, ‘It’s really just as simple, just hold him for a minute until he calms down.’

Jehan may have seemed like a fragile snowflake but their voice was able to fill anyone with fear and respect and had people answering his wishes without protest of any sort. It was something Bahorel called ‘natural authority that strikes anyone with awe’ and that none of their friends contested. No wonder that Enjolras sat down next to Grantaire and put his arm around his shoulders without saying another word of protest. Jehan waved Joly to help them with the hot drinks they needed to cheer Grantaire up.

For a moment, Enjolras’ arm around him felt like a lead weight and the way he sat next to him like a looming presence, stiff as a log. He felt his throat work to produce words, to tell him he did not need to feel obliged to follow Jehan’s orders. A small part of him wanted to explain himself, apologise for his behaviour and ask him to forgive him for the misery he had put on display, but the words did not come out.

‘You – you don’t have to –‘

‘Shut up,’ Enjolras toed his shoes off and put his feet up onto the sofa, leaning back and pulling Grantaire into his arms in the process, ‘I was told to hold you and that’s what I’m going to bloody do!’

Joly clapped his hands and turned back around, ‘Thank you, stranger that has Grantaire and Jehan figured out already.’

‘Oh sorry, I must have forgotten my manners,’ Enjolras bowed his head, ‘I’m Enjolras, I live down the hallway.’

‘Oh we know,’ Jehan grinned, ‘Grantaire has –‘

‘- mentioned you. You’re sharing with Courfeyrac und Combeferre, right?’ Joly glared at Jehan and smacked his arm.

‘Yes, we’ve known each other since before we started at the academy. It’s fun, we have movie and board game nights, discussions and Combeferre has founded a debate society in our living room – you should join us some time,’ Enjolras seemed to ease into the conversation, his face lighting up at the mention of the society.

‘I heard about that,’ Jehan poured steaming hot chocolate into the oversized mugs Joly had bought for Grantaire. They had been supposed to be a prank but he had taken to them, ‘Courfeyrac has tried to recruit me several times now after you moved to the _Musain_. I’m Jehan, by the way and this is Joly, he might be a bit sour but he’s a sweetheart.’

‘Yes, so are they,’ Joly rolled his eyes, ‘scoot over, I’ll get the marshmallows and sprinkles.’

‘Sprinkles,’ Jehan squealed, almost knocking over the mugs in front of them, ‘You know me so well.’

‘It really doesn’t take long to know that you will eat anything sparkly. Take the tray,’ Joly nodded the tray they had placed the mugs on and limped over to the sofa.

He threw a box of tissues at Grantaire who pulled one out and dried the tears on his face. Enjolras’ arm around him tightened and his hand patted him on the shoulder. Grantaire allowed himself to draw in a breath. It was less shaky than before.

‘I’m sorry,’ he croaked, moving slightly since he was starting to perceive his surroundings again, ‘You really shouldn’t have seen that. I have to apologise, Enjolras. What I showed back there was weak, pathetic behaviour that should not have been an issue in your presence. I hope you can forgive me for dragging you into the situation.’

He cleared his throat, took Enjolras’ hand and lifted it off his shoulders. Jehan, who had been watching him, rolled their eyes but handed him his favourite mug. Grantaire, in an attempt to further his apology, passed it on to Enjolras who accepted it, seemingly glad to have something to busy his hands with. Joly and Jehan sat down with them and for a moment, no one said a word.

‘Grantaire mentioned you play the piano,’ Joly cleared his throat, ‘Are you one of those music students who have recitals all the time?’

‘Not all the time, it’s like – do you perform a new play every week?’

‘Touché,’ Jehan grinned and licked glitter off his lips, ‘You should let us know when you have your next recital, though. We’d come. Definitely. I’ll bring Bahorel, Joly’ll be bringing Bousset, and we’ll force R to come as well!’

‘R?’

‘My nickname,’ Grantaire looked down into his mug, ‘You wouldn’t have to force me, though, I’d come anyway.’

‘You get to hear me play whenever you want,’ Enjolras gave him a faint smile, ‘Nocturnal practices and work hours, whenever you want to drop by.’

Grantaire felt himself blush, his cheeks felt hot, and he grabbed his mug tighter to hide the tremor in his fingers, ‘I will. Still, someone should come to your recitals with embarrassing posters and banners.’

Enjolras coughed, choking on a gulp of hot cocoa, ‘Remind me to never let you spend time with Courf!’

Grantaire, in a sudden brave moment, stuck out his tongue before returning his attention to his mug, tugging himself into the cushions. Joly asked about the recitals Enjolras had had so far whilst being at the academy and he eagerly provided detailed information about the how, when, where and why. Before long, their mugs were empty, and Jehan yawned, stretching like a cat. Grantaire, awake due to the lingering embarrassment the evening had brought him earlier, patted their hair and suggested walking them over to their flat. Jehan nodded, seemingly half asleep which prompted Joly to snicker as Grantaire pulled them to their feet.

‘See you, Enjolras, nice to meet you,’ Jehan slurred his speech, smiling and waving at Enjolras who waved back awkwardly, ‘You are fluffy, R.’

Grantaire fended off his friend’s hands that tried to weave into his hair. He knew Jehan’s antics and their preference for hair touching well enough to avoid his grabby fingers. Wrangling them could be fun but exhausting at the same time.

When he returned to his flat, Joly and Enjolras had been joined by Bousset. A steaming tea pot stood on the table and they were talking about a book both he and Enjolras had read. Grantaire made a mental note to look into it as he sat back down.

‘Are they in bed?’ Enjolras smiled at him, thus ending the argument, ‘They seemed ready to doze off on the spot.’

‘Handed them over to the boyfriend,’ Grantaire eased himself back onto the sofa, ‘I could do with a beer.’

‘Nope, not tonight,’ Joly patted his back, ‘you were at the exhibition opening. You can’t tell me you didn’t have your fill there. Didn’t you promise me to cut back on the booze?’

‘You promised both of us,’ Bousset knocked over an empty mug whilst attempting to get to the crisps they kept on the table, ‘and you’ve done well so far, it would be a pity to ruin the progress you’ve made.’

The question was plastered across Enjolras’ face.

‘My dear friends think I drink too much,’ Grantaire sighed, ‘I had rather drink myself to death but they made me promise not to do it and solve my problems the new-fangled way.’

‘New-fangled?’

‘Joly thinks pills and therapy, Bousset wants me to do sports, Jehan insists on braiding my hair. It’s all a bit meddlesome but they’d never stop teasing about it, anyway,’ He threw a pillow at Joly for good measure, too.

‘It actually doesn’t sound too bad,’ Enjolras interjected, ‘all of these are valid methods to battle mental health issues. Do you –‘

‘I do not talk about it. Joly diagnosed me and he diagnoses everybody with everything. A bit of a hypochondriac, if you ask me.’

‘Hey,’ the pillow was sent flying back at him, ‘I’ve read stuff.’

‘Yes, you’ve read books, my dear friend, and I ponder over a lot of things. That doesn’t make you a doctor and me a psycho,’ Grantaire rolled his eyes and ruffled his hair, ‘I definitely need a haircut.’

‘No,’ Enjolras toasted him with his cup of tea, ‘it suits you.’


	7. Chapter Seven

He was properly introduced to Combeferre and Courfeyrac a couple of days later. They had met out side the accommodations when Grantaire came back from his shift at the museum and the three music students had invited him along to their apartment for dinner. He had met both of Enjolras’ roommates before but seeing them in their flat was different from witnessing them at a party. Courfeyrac seemed unable to sit still for the first forty minutes of Grantaire’s visit and only Combeferre got him to calm down a bit. It reminded him of Jehan and Bahorel.

Combeferre had cooked for them and they sat down to eat at the kitchen table. Within minutes, Enjolras had started a discussion on local politics, entitled families and the destructive influence of their money on structures built to support less wealthy people. Grantaire followed the discussion for a minute or two, almost forgetting to chew his food. Courfeyrac who had settled and calmed down actively took part in the discussion and Combeferre whom he had thought to be a calm anchor for the other two, started to get rosy cheeks as he delivered a passionate speech on why the academy’s board needed to be held accountable for the disfunction of their entry auditions. It was common knowledge amongst the students that the selection process required a family background check of each applicant before they were even considered for the interview in  front of the dean and academy board, they had all been through it. Combeferre’s speech launched Enjolras into a fiery sermon on the arrogance the board members displayed whenever they met one of the students.

‘It’s their attitude, everything about their posture, countenance and words that make clear that none of the student body are on their level. Even years after starting, you still get the feeling you owe them something, they treat you with the same condescension one might treat their servant with! Students around the campus should not be exposed to this sickening behaviour!’

Grantaire followed his every word, his eyes glued to his lips. Enjolras seemed passionate enough to set a room ablaze just like that, his eyes radiant with the fire of a thousand suns and his hair glowing like a halo. The artist in him wanted to draw him as either a Greek god or an archangel, with flaming sword and shield, defending the peoples of Earth and punishing the sinners. The part of him that read scholarly journals and essays on society, economy and the fine arts, however, wanted to challenge him, to rouse him and voice some opposition. He met Combeferre’s eyes over the table. He had obviously watched him, a small smile forming at the corner of his mouth.

‘What do you suggest then?’ Grantaire felt courageous for a moment and blurted it out.

‘No more nepotism, no more financial injections, no guarantee of selection for the spoilt brats of wealthy entrepreneurs, CEOs and bankers. Simple as that!’

‘Simple as that. How are the students from less fortunate families going to pay the student fees and rent on the accommodations when the financial injections are discontinued and both fees and rents increase? How will rental instruments be paid, how the canvases and paints? Where will the money come from that pays the tutors, professors and guest lecturers? What actions will you take to ensure that the quality of the education we get at the academy is maintained? As it is, less wealthy students are enabled to attend the academy without having to sell their soul to every devil and demon they can summon.’

‘Are you truly defending the corrupted ways that are treaded around the academy? Are you saying we should close our eyes to the talented young artists who are turned away because they simply don’t have the means to bribe their way into the academy?’

‘If you listened closely, you will have noticed that I did not say that. I merely said that there will be a struggle for those who do not have a nest egg to fall back onto. If you want to uproot the society on which you base your revolution, you need to secure the station of those who we should believe to be the first ones affected by it. A revolution needs to be built from the bottom, where it is supposed to gain a foothold. Otherwise, we will cause the deterioration of the target group’s living conditions.’

There was a brief moment of silence in which the three music students stared at him. Neither of them said a single word, Combeferre still held his fork in his hand, parked midway between his plate and his mouth, Courfeyrac’s mouth was hanging open and Enjolras’ bright eyes seemed to impale him with a single look. Grantaire cleared his throat and fumbled with his napkin.

‘I’m sorry if I overstepped –‘

‘Are you kidding?’ Courfeyrac slammed his hand on the table, ‘This is the first time in months that I have seen him speechless! You just – you hit back! This is glorious!’

Combeferre cleared his throat, ‘I have to say, it made for a nice change to hear someone argue back. It’s invigorating! I should love to welcome you at our next meeting.’

‘The debate society? I don’t know,’ Grantaire looked up to meet Enjolras’ stern face, ‘I don’t think I’d fit your ideal.’

‘Please,’ Enjolras nodded, ‘join us some time. If you argue against me like you just did, the discussions might get some life injected into them.’

Grantaire hid his grin behind his glass, ‘I’m warning you beforehand. I am a bitter sceptic. To convince me, your arguments have to be well thought-out, otherwise I’ll find the weak spot. Or I’ll start drawing in a back corner.’

‘He’ll tear you apart,’ Courfeyrac beamed with joy, slapping Enjolras’ back, ‘this is going to be so much fun!’

They avoided further discussions for the sake of the evening, Combeferre insisted. Once Enjolras had done the dishes, with Grantaire drying and Courfeyrac tidying everything away, they sat down in the living room to watch a few episodes of some show Combeferre had picked. Grantaire felt something happy pulse through his body as he saw the three friends next to him. His fingers searched for the pencil behind his ear and a piece of paper in his bag. He got to work quickly and drew a quick sketch of what he felt was important about the situation. Courfeyrac and Combeferre cuddling, Combeferre whispering something into Courfeyrac’s ear, causing him to crack up about whatever joke he had made. Enjolras sitting next to them, his arms wrapped around his knees, eyes glued to the screen. He had pulled his hair tie out of his ponytail and played with single strands of his hair. It filled Grantaire with an unknown delight to be a part of their small group and he imagined how lively society meetings could get, with Enjolras as the leader.

Combeferre nudged Courfeyrac awake after a fifth episode of the show. Grantaire had not been following the plot, he had been too preoccupied with his sketch. Only, when Enjolras lightly touched his arm did he look up.

‘Hey, fancy going downstairs?’ he smiled at him, ‘You spent so many evenings in my rehearsal room now, it feels like something was missing if we didn’t.’

‘Sure,’ Grantaire got up and tucked his sketch into one of the books on the table, ‘any plans?’

‘Do you have any assignments you need to finish?’ Enjolras opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.

‘No pressing ones, but plenty of ideas. How about you, do you need to practise?’

‘Not today.’

They went downstairs, Grantaire opened his studio up and switched on his table lamp, ‘Make yourself at home. The divan’s yours, you can pick the music if you want to and I’ll just choose my idea according to it.’

‘Sounds interesting. Does it really work?’

‘Of course. Every painting conveys emotion, doesn’t it? If you can capture the emotion behind the thought you had when you started it, it will become something great. Big, obnoxious feelings are easier to catch; sadness, grief, depression, weariness. That’s easy stuff. Happiness, joy, satisfaction; that’s the real test. It’s always a test. One of my professors always wants to know what emotions were connected to painting a certain piece, and he’s right. It’s always connected to something.’

‘Isn’t yellow one of the happy colours?’ Enjolras leaned back, watching Grantaire lift a canvas on his easel.

‘Utter nonsense,’ he adjusted the canvas and turned back to the working table, ‘any colour can be a happy or a sad one, it depends on the painting. Look at van Gogh’s Sunflowers. It’s positively yellow but you still can’t shake the air of something deeper, a little depressing. Something is off about that painting and I haven’t managed to grasp it.’

Enjolras laughed from behind him, ‘Passionate about your field of study.’

‘Aren’t we all?’ Grantaire looked through the sketchbooks on the table, ‘I have the drafts somewhere around here. Have you decided on some music?’

‘Your music library is quaint.’

‘Quaint?’

‘Found something!’ Enjolras pulled a CD out of the binder Grantaire kept in his studio, ‘Good, I take it back. Your taste in music is not quaint, it’s bloody brilliant. I mean, there are still some choices I just cannot comprehend but at least you have some of the classics. Is Chopin alright?’

‘Always,’ he started to work on the scaffolding, blending together pale yellow and using a slender brush to bring it onto the canvas, ‘Knock yourself out.’

‘Why are you starting to paint with yellow?’

‘It’s one of the lighter colours and, unlike pencil, it doesn’t filter through. You can build a structure by going light to dark,’ Grantaire pushed a brush behind his ear and tried to blow his hair out of his eyes, ‘It all comes together in the end.’

He put down line after line, stroke after stroke, yellow on yellow. It came easy, with Chopin’s _Nocturnes_ blaring from the speakers on the table. The brush flew over the canvas, drawing up structures on the white nothing of the canvas, trees, stones, a path, one distant lantern and the biggest test, the water surface.

‘Isn’t that the one you drew by the river?’

‘Yes. It’s actually the second attempt, the first one was just off. It didn’t have the right feeling to it, not like when we were down at the river. So, I have to redo it.’

‘Sounds like a lot of work.’

‘Don’t you work hard? Don’t you practise a piece until you play it perfectly, without a single misplaced finger? Don’t you craft your arguments for the society carefully to be convincing and persuasive? It’s all hard work and our course of studies is to work hard for little recognition. We are studying the fine arts, after all.’

A rustling of paper suggested that Enjolras got up from the divan, disturbing some of the sketches Grantaire had placed there, ‘Are you sure we shouldn’t trade places? You seem more than capable to lead a debate group.’

‘No, Enjolras,’ Grantaire laughed, ‘You are doing better in front of a crowd than I ever could. It is a gift you possess, you can use it at your convenience. I am more the babbling idiot kind.’

‘Ferre and Courf were right, you know?’ Enjolras crossed his arms, ‘It is going to be invigorating. And fun.’

‘What, me getting a rise out of you?’ Grantaire gave him a smile, ‘I’ll probably like that. Will it work though?’

‘Of course, I have one of the shortest fuses out there,’ there was no edge to their banter, Enjolras leaned onto the table and grinned like a cat dipped in honey, ‘This will be fun.’

‘I’ll hold you to that when we clash again,’ Grantaire finished the structure of one of the riverbanks, ‘pass me my sketchbook?’

‘How long until you finish that?’

‘A few days. It needs to dry before I can continue with the different stages. And then, in the end, I need to apply a last coat of something my professor said would give it this little extra.’

‘And what’d that be?’

‘Glitter.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Glitter, I’m going to dust the water surface with glitter to make it look real,’ Grantaire explained, ‘It’s a little experimental.’

‘Sounds like something Jehan could enjoy, right?’

Grantaire nodded, ‘Right.’

He continued to bring the paint onto the canvas, every stroke of the brush a dedicated promise. Enjolras watched him closely, arms propped up on the table, his legs crossed at the ankles. Whenever Grantaire turned around, their eyes met and he got to see Enjolras’ smile, directed at either him or the painting.

‘This is going to look marvellous,’ at some point, he stepped around the table and stood close to Grantaire, ‘I really hope I get to see the final product!’

‘You will, promise! I’ll come by your room –‘

‘Nonsense!’ Enjolras held his hand out, ‘Give me your phone, I’m going to give you my number. You will call or text me as soon as you’re finished.’

Grantaire nodded silently and handed him his phone. Enjolras punched his number in, saved it and gave him the device back. He pocketed it and turned back to the canvas. The scaffolding assumed shape, its yellow structures promised to turn out more satisfactory than the first attempt.

‘Enjolras?’

‘Yes?’

‘Tell me something about yourself.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘What’s your family like? Where did you grow up? When did you realise you wanted to become a musician? I would like to hear the little things about Enjolras.’

‘There’s not much of interest to be told,’ Enjolras furrowed his brow, ‘my parents raised me in the countryside, I had piano lessons and liked the sound of it which made me quite bratty because I insisted on learning and practising more, going to concerts and buying more sheet music than they had ever planned to buy.’

‘Liar.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Never ever in a million years did you grow up as a simple country boy who was taken into town to see some piano concert. I was there often enough to know that my mother’s engagements aren’t cheap. Spit it out, Enjolras, it will not burn your throat.’

‘Are you sure? You are definitely smarter than you look, R. If saying it kills me I will blame you, just so you know.’

‘I’ll risk it.’

‘Good, here goes,’ Enjolras cleared his throat, scrunched up his nose and exhaled carefully, ‘my father is a big landowner. I grew up in a mansion. My mother has more expensive evening gowns than plates in the kitchen.’

‘So tell me, Enjolras, how did you get into the academy? Was there a background check? Did your parents support your application in any way other than accompanying you to the interview? Did your name raise eyebrows amongst the board members?’

Enjolras huffed out something inaudible, ‘Of course it did, whom are we kidding? Hell, they must have been delighted to see your name on their list! Doesn’t mean it is right! Knowing what is wrong with the system means that there is a chance for those people who are willing to change it. The question is, who will take on the fight? Les Amis de l’ABC? Definitely. Combeferre’s freelance student paper? Partially. Me? Yes. You?’

Grantaire laughed, ‘Pinned down like a virgin at a black mass. I like your style, I’ll give you that.’

He turned to the small basin in the corner to clean the brushes he had used for the scaffold. It was easier to deal with the situation without looking at Enjolras whilst delivering something that would without doubt offend him.

‘Your scathing humour won’t always protect you, R,’ Enjolras sat back down, according to the diwan’ springs groaning, ‘You will have to face the choice one day.’

‘Fortunately, there is enough brandy in this town to help me forget if I make the wrong one. Don’t you think I should start hoarding bottles of booze?’

‘Don’t you dare,’ Enjolras’ voice tensed up, ‘This academy is a great institution that opens doors to worlds many artists would otherwise only dream of. Every student roaming these halls is a poster child of its cause, a walking billboard. Our recitals, exhibitions and performances all shine a light on everything we do around here and we are indebted to the organisation. We are supposed to show our gratitude for everything that is offered to us by the gracious gods of fine arts education. Once you enter the academy you discard your ideals and agree to follow their brainwashed indoctrination. We have brains to use them and we will not stop until we have accomplished the change of circumstances that we, the student body, deem proper in order to ensure everybody, student, applicant or tutor is treated even-handed.’

Grantaire turned around to face him. Enjolras watched his every move as he came back to sit at the foot of the divan, one pillow next to him. He pulled his legs up and wrapped his arms around his knees. The lamp made him blink against the light a few times before he focussed on him properly. His hair seemed to shine in the darkness of the studio.

‘I admire your strong-minded stubbornness, Enjolras, I really do. You possess the same flair for the dramatic as Jehan and his drama pals – but you really mean it all, every little detail. Of course you do, you are not one for hypocrisy. I would laugh at you if I got as much as an inkling you didn’t back the projects you bring into being.’

Enjolras kicked him in the shin for that and Grantaire laughed, ‘Ow – okay, I deserved that.’

‘To accuse me of hypocrisy! I can’t believe it,’ Enjolras grinned at him, a perfect, shit-eating grin that showed a spark of that burning passion Grantaire had seen earlier.

‘I didn’t, actually.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I didn’t accuse you of hypocrisy, I didn’t accuse you of anything,’ Grantaire could not hide the smirk that wanted to break out over his face.

Enjolras smiled and leaned back into the divan, resting his head on his hand, ‘I heard you, loud and clear.’

‘And you just chose to kick me instead of using your words,’ Grantaire giggled, ‘what a show of manners, esquire.’

‘I shouldn’t have told you about my family.’

‘Yes, you should have. It honours you to defy your own status and fight against the expectations your family without doubt carries for you. It also means you constantly tread a very fine line between accomplishing your biggest goal and leaving your family’s society completely, breaking all bonds. I’m sure you can get by on your own. For a certain time, right?’

Enjolras shook his head, smile clinging to his lips, ‘Is that not hypocrisy? You’re good at deducing the tiniest change of nature, R.’

‘So I’m told. I call it ‘an artist’s eye’ and paying attention to every tiny detail that repeats itself, thus indicating a habit or conviction. You don’t speak about your family but you don’t keep it a secret either. You are aware of the advantage you have by birth and you seek to actively undermine it. That is brave but I guess we have something in common in that.’

‘Choosing art over music doesn’t count as undermining your privilege.’

‘Again, not what I’ve been saying,’ Grantaire scrunched up his nose.

‘I might not be hiding my family and treating it as a secret – but you do. You might think I didn’t notice but there is something in your eyes that tells me differently. Do you want to talk about it?’

Grantaire shook his head, the smile plastered on and his fingernails digging into the soft flesh of his forearm, ‘There is nothing to talk about. I tried my hand at music, I painted, I was better at the latter, I decided to try and make a career of it.’

‘And you most certainly will. Do you have exhibitions or something like that?’

Grantaire eyed Enjolras wearily, not sure whether his question was genuine and why he had changed the subject. He cleared his throat and nodded.

‘We are given the chance to exhibit our work several times throughout the term. The academy organises them in a gallery in town, sometimes students sell them there, and sometimes they get picked for bigger venues. Some put them outside their studios and rooms for others to take.’

‘How often have you been part of these exhibitions?’

‘A few times,’ Grantaire reminded himself to tear his fingernails out of his fingers. He had successfully grounded himself back in the moment, ‘I don’t tend to stay at openings for more than a few minutes.‘

‘The next time you have a part in an exhibition, you have to tell me, agreed? You have my number and I want to be one of those obnoxious people who stand in the middle of the room to proclaim that they know the artist.’

‘You’d fit right in,’ Grantaire said dryly. He did not want to imagine Enjolras standing in front of one of his paintings in a gallery, dressed for an exhibition opening, maybe in a turtleneck or a waistcoat over a neatly pressed shirt. It seemed too good to actually come true.

‘It’s done then. Next time, I will be there.’


	8. Chapter Eight

The next days were bad ones. He slept a lot, cried even more and only left his room in the night to go to the bathroom and refill his water bottle without waking Joly and Bousset in the process. He was in constant pain, a condition he had never gotten used to, not at any of its occasions. It was no physical pain; no wound, no injury had been inflicted on him, no one had even gotten close to him in twenty-four hours by the time the first symptoms appeared. He had spent them like always when his episodes started. Once the dull, pounding headaches set in, he pulled the curtains shut, locked his door from the inside and lay down with his earbuds firmly tucked into his ears. He picked the first of the playlists that was recommended to him, almost feeling relieved when the soft sound of a piano tune set in. He dozed off in the middle of an orchestra piece, about an hour later.

As expected, he woke up with a raging headache, a swollen throat and the feeling that he had better not move. He knew better than to even try and get up. The crippling sluggishness that had befallen his bones made him feel as if his insides were made of lead. The bedsheet and the pillow under his head were soaked and damp with the same cold sweat that made his curls stick to his forehead. He lay there, in the middle of a bed, too big for him, not daring to move in anticipation of what would follow inevitably at some point. Trying to put off the evil hour only made it worse, he knew that from experience and yet, he hesitated, frozen in his curled up position. It was one of the things he forgot after every episode, his mind attempting to shelter him from the memory of his torment by gracing him in drawing a thin veil over his consciousness.

He had to move eventually, or rather, moved involuntarily when he heard a sound from the other side of the door. Joly or Bousset must had gotten up since the room adjoining his was the communal area and no other sounds were usually audible in his room except for when they were in the l´kitchen. The noise, however, of them setting down their coffee cups on the counter made him flinch.

The effects rushed at him in an instant. Although he had merely moved an inch under his duvet, it felt as if he had rolled onto a bed of nails. Within a second, his skin felt like it had been burnt; the duvet and bedsheet against his body were enough to have him writhing in pain. His breath hitched in his throat, no sound left his mouth as the tears sprung to his eyes and poured over. Every square inch of his skin hurt, needles seemingly pricked into him without drawing blood, but the sensation was enough to let him forget the effects movement would have and curl in onto himself. The pain spread, from his skin into the depths of his body, cauterising his insides and making him want to scream until the world knew his agony. His tears left marks on his pillow, streaming from his eyes without meeting resistance as his lips pressed against the cover, strained with the desperation of the trapped sound.

He managed to grab his phone, pushed the earbuds back into his ears and pressed play on the first thing his convulsing fingers could reach before slumping back onto the mattress as a whimpering pile. There was nothing he could do, anyway. The pain would lessen at some point, he had to hang on until then, trying to remain calm whilst his mind told him to scratch and claw the skin off his bones to get rid of the stinging, irritating sensation that almost felt like somebody stroked him the wrong way with a wire brush. During his first episode he had drawn bloods with his fingernails. After that, he had managed to contain the self-destructive feelings for just about long enough to pull himself together, granting himself the two minutes he needed to take his pills.

Grantaire sobbed but the dry air hurt even more in his throat, trapped within. The small box containing the only possibility to control the urge to make the pain end was in his bag, under the desk in the opposite corner of the room. He would not manage to reach it, he would not be able to take his medication and it scared him senseless. The next sob announced itself, he tried to gulp it back, attempting to avoid the next surge of hot pain in his throat. All for nothing, it still found its way when he gulped against the pressure building up in his lungs. He gave up, in that moment. The next sobs were allowed to spill from his quivering lips, shaking his body with pain in the process. They were muffled by the pillow under his head, as he found himself unable to move again; this time no reflex would disrupt his attempts to remain still. The next stage had set in, and he did not have his pills at hand. His muscles tensed up at this stage, until he had lost any control over them, unable to move as much as a finger with only unhindered tears streaming down his cheeks to soak the pillowcase. Almost no sound spilled over his lips, the short gurgling of wet sobs the only noise that filled his room.

‘R? Are you okay in there?’ Joly’s voice rang in his ears, along with a short knock on his door. Grantaire knew the sound of the silvered head of his cane on the wood, ‘You haven’t come out in a day.’

Grantaire tried. He struggled to open his mouth, urged his lips to form words and bring them out, but all that followed was more silence. His vocal chords denied him their service, leaving him helpless on top of his bed with no means to make a sound.

‘Grantaire? Can you please let me know whether you are okay? We haven’t heard from you,’ the door handle was pushed down, ‘Did you – are you – shit, Bousset, I think R has another episode.’

He wanted to tell them to go away, leave him alone and go about their days as usual but a moment later he heard Bousset join Joly outside his room, ‘Are you sure he’s not just in his studio? He left early a few times recently.’

‘No, no, I don’t believe he’s still obsessed with his painting. I think it’s the other thing again.’

‘We can’t really break down the door, and anyway, we know R has his meds in there with him. He’s probably sleeping it off right now. You can still go shopping and get him some groceries for when he wakes up, text him when you are on your way back home.’

‘I’m not sure we should –‘ Joly’s voice sheered off, he was probably steered away by Bousset.

Grantaire thanked him silently. His friends could not change anything about his situation as it was, he needed to fight his own battles, and upsetting them by allowing them to see him like he was during his episodes would do no good for any of them. He tried to get his body to relax but his tense muscles did not obey him. Once he had gulped down the breath he had been holding, he closed his eyes. If any entity beyond the stars had mercy, they would allow him to fall asleep peacefully. It took another hour of quiet and calm orchestral music until he finally fell asleep.

The headache and sore throat were gone when he woke up again. He got up slowly, biting through the pain that shot into his limbs. His eyes were dry and hurt with every blink. Every single muscle in his body ached after cramping for hours. He limped to the door, turned the key with trembling fingers and opened it, squeezing through the narrow gap without making a sound. No lamp was switched on, the darkness filing in through the windows suggested a time late at night. Grantaire chose to leave the flat in the darkness it was enveloped in. He reached the bathroom without disturbance, years of training in a drunk state paying off. The water bottle almost slipped out of his fingers a few times whilst he refilled it and he blacked out for a second as he relieved himself. A short bout of panic overcame him, he fumbled for the sink and held on to it. His way back to his room was only made possible with the help of furniture to both sides as support. It took him longer to get back to his bed without falling. He sat down on the edge and gulped down a bit of water. His throat wanted to complain for a moment but the cool water calmed it immediately. Still, every slight movement hurt and the cotton of his bedding felt harsh against his over-sensitive skin. The sensation would not disappear for a few more days, he knew he would feel irritated by the smallest touch and would feel on edge for most of the time but he knew several things that would help with both the pain and the irritation. Grantaire massaged his temples. His stomach almost revolted when he slid his arm along the duvet to find his phone. Of course, the battery had died at some point. He plugged it in, taking more time than he would usually need. The fingers of his right hand twitched, a last remnant of the cramps of the previous day. The pale light from the display let him know that he had slept for over a day and into the night.

He needed soft. His skin needed softness and cosiness. His soul needed comfort food and warmth and his rumbling stomach demanded his attention as well. Grantaire pushed himself to his feet. He could do soft, he kept his favourite clothes in a corner of his dresser for this exact reason. Ever since he had to deal with the effects of his first episode only to find out that there was only one combination of clothes in his wardrobe that would actually soothe his irritated skin and calm him down, he had kept them close by. It consisted of a soft, fluffy pair of black training trousers that fit him just right around the thighs and an oversized jumper of dark green cashmere or fine wool, he had never bothered to check the label. All he knew was that it made him feel better when he slipped it over his head. It caressed him, almost as much as a good, warm hug would. He added his favourite beanie, made of smooth maroon wool and hand-knitted by Jehan, their last birthday present for him.

The next thing he needed was his medication, now that he could move again, available, to fight off another attack. He swallowed the pills and pocketed them, not willing to risk lacking them another time. A few minutes later, he left the flat as soundless as he had snuck into the bathroom before, gliding into the drizzle outside that had begun to pour down at some point. His fingers had not been able to tie his shoelaces, he had opted to slip them into the upper and walk carefully instead of looking for different shoes that would support his feet less. There was a 24/7 café on the corner, not far from the academy and he needed at least chocolate and a hot drink to calm his nerves, his stomach rumbled and cramped again as he left the building. His friends would scold him in the morning, Joly would most likely call Jehan over to have them yell at him before insisting on feeding him with whatever they had in their pantry.

He had to pause three times on the way down the road, allowing the rain to soak through his light coat, holding on to street lamps and the odd bike stand for support. It was pathetic but nothing he did not know from previous experience. It all seeped into each other, one episode after the other, with all its effects and reactions, until he hardly remembered when he had been having them.

He opened the door to the café and slipped through the narrow gap he allowed himself to enter through, leaving the dark, wet night behind. There were only three other people in there, a couple in one of the booths by the window who were snogging their faces off over a cup of coffee and Éponine behind the counter. She wiped down the coffee machine and dried some cups before turning around when she heard the door close.

‘R, what are you doing here, it’s three in the morning!’

‘Is it? I hadn’t noticed,’ he walked up to the counter, ‘I need something to eat and a hot drink. Surprise me.’

Éponine frowned at him but turned around to get one of his favourite paninis to re-heat it and make him an extra big mug of Cappuccino, just as he liked it, with three shots of Espresso and a dash of caramel syrup. He shuffled through the café, scooting into the booth in the darkest corner. Once he had placed his bag next to himself on the seat and started to get his sketchbook and pencils out he browsed the pages he had filled so far, examining them with the cautious eye of an artist looking for inspiration. Éponine came by the table a minute later to set down the panini and Cappuccino.

‘Now spill,’ she slid into onto the seat opposite from him, ‘Late night coffee for you can only mean two or three things. Either you have been up painting and grew tired of it, or you ran out of inspiration and needed a break – or you just came out of an episode.’

‘Don’t pretend like Joly didn’t text you.’

‘He didn’t.’

Grantaire shot her a dirty look. Éponine squirmed for a moment before sighing out a breath.

‘Fine, Jehan did,’ she rolled her eyes at him, ‘Three days, Grantaire! You stayed in your locked room for three days without texting anyone or telling us you were okay, and I bet you didn’t even drink half of the water bottles you keep under your bed for these exact moments. You are a goddamn idiot, R, and I would kill you, if you weren’t fucking depressed and thinking about it all the time anyway. Why didn’t you tell Joly or Bousset when they came by?’

Grantaire stirred his Cappuccino and pushed the spoon behind his ear, causing Éponine to groan and huff out something that sounded alarmingly close to “disgusting slob.”

‘I didn’t tell them…because I couldn’t. I left my pills in the bag next to the door. Once the attack hit, I was on the bed. I just could not reach them when the muscular rigidity hit.’

‘And you couldn’t have taken them before it hit?’ Éponine smacked him on the head, ‘You have a fucking bedside table for this exact reason, to place your pills and a bottle of water on top of it, to keep them in your damn reach!’

‘I know, ‘Ponine, alright?’ Grantaire finished his coffee, ‘I was stupid to think that I could get through it without the pills, okay? I will never do it again and I will put up a sign on my door so that Joly and Bousset know whether to break in or not.’

‘I should hope so,’ Éponine got up, ‘we’ll get Jehan to hound you, otherwise.’

Grantaire winced at the idea and ducked his head over his sketchbook, opened on the half-finished sketch of Enjolras in his music room. Éponine huffed out another, undoubtedly annoyed remark before turning away to return behind the counter. He watched her wipe down the counter with quick, energetic movements. It took him a moment to get his focus back on the book in front of him. He wanted to finish the sketch, a thought had entered his mind during his episode and he wanted to see it fulfilled. Sketching with stiff fingers, however, proved to be more difficult than he remembered. The pencil slipped from his fingers a few times before he could grip it properly. He placed the tip on the paper and drew a few test lines along the piano. It worked until his fingers twitched again and the pencil skidded over the table only to drop to the floor. Grantaire groaned and bent down to retrieve it.

The couple left the café at about four, giggling and holding on to each other as they pushed through the door. Without doubt, their night was far from finished. Grantaire shuddered at the thought. He returned to his sketch, paying no attention to the door opening and closing a few times, the nighthawks made way for the early birds who came in to collect their first cup of coffee. Grantaire still sketched when the first rays of sunlight fell into his dark booth, rigid fingers disobeying his will every few minutes. It took him longer than usually to finish the rough draft, he tried to rub his hands against the fabric of his jumper but his overstimulated nerves protested against the tiniest friction.

‘Hey stupid,’ Éponine slid back into his booth, ‘my shift’s over, do you want to get breakfast at a proper place? Or do you have other plans?’

‘I don’t have any other plans but I’m also not very hungry.’

‘You haven’t eaten properly for three days!’

‘Exactly,’ Grantaire ran his fingers through his hair, ‘my stomach’s not used to food now.’

Éponine kicked him in the shin and pulled the sketchbook from his hands, ‘Who’s that?’

‘A guy from the academy. I saw him play the piano and just had to draw him.’

‘It looks different from the other stuff you’ve drawn,’ she skimmed through his sketchbook, raising an eyebrow at some of the drafts he kept in there, ‘You’ve drawn him a few times. Your lines are softer when you draw him.’

Grantaire grabbed the book and stuffed it in his bag, ‘Don’t care. He’s a nice person and a good pianist.’

‘And?’

He shrugged. There was no point in telling her what hadn’t left his mind throughout the previous days. There was no point in telling her that he felt like drowning, like he did not deserve Enjolras’ attention, even when he allowed himself to bask in the warmth he radiated. Éponine knew half of what he thought of himself and the people he loved, anyway.

‘I’m just saying, you draw him with feeling, with passion, if you will. You know I don’t know anything about that stuff but it’s nice to look at it,’ Éponine cleared her throat, ‘and you should sleep. Your muscles will only get sorer, if you don’t.’

‘I have been sleeping for over a day, the last thing I could do now is sleep. No, I should get back to the studio and continue working on a piece I started recently. It’s another landscape.’

‘I love your landscapes and still lives. They are the pieces that actually get exhibited.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You know what I mean,’ Éponine slid her coat on, ‘I’m going home. Are you coming? I’ll walk you back to the academy. We might even get there before Joly and Bousset wake up to skin you. Oh, if you try really hard, you could sneak into Jehan’s.’

‘What are you, crazy? Bahorel does his combat yoga thing in the morning, he would take my head off if I tried to sneak in.’

‘Jehan’s breakfast, though. That has to be an upside.’

They left the café and walked back up the street. A few cars passed them but it was still too early for the real commuter traffic and the pale morning light made everything seem fresh and rosy. The pink glimmer on the shop windows and streets, single rays hitting the flower pots on the corner store’s steps.

‘They would love this,’ Grantaire stopped dead in his tracks, ‘the sight of it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Jehan. They would love to see what the streets look like early in the morning, bathed in pale pink sunlight. Unfortunately,’ he slipped his bag off his shoulder, pulled his sketchbook out and flipped through the pages, ‘they sleep until noon and haven’t seen a sunrise in ages. Lots of sundowns, of course.’

‘So what are you going to do? Draw them a sunrise?’ Éponine’s lips twisted into a grin, ‘Oh right, you are.’

Grantaire sat down cross-legged in the middle of the pavement, sketchbook on his knee, pencil in his hand. He pulled his left jumper sleeve over the hand to keep it from smudging the pencil lines he put on the paper.

‘I have a pink somewhere in my bag, could you try and find it for me?’ he waved towards the bag next to him, ‘Probably at the bottom. I need it to accentuate a few spots until I can get it in water colours.’

His pencil flew over the page, outlining houses, streets and flower pots. There were dew drops caught in the petals of the flowers at the corner shop, he could see them glint in the early sunlight and tried to include them in the draft.

‘Ponine! The pink!’

‘She left about ten minutes ago,’ a voice said to his left, ‘I took the liberty of looking for it, though. Is it this pink?’

Grantaire scrambled to his feet, taking a step back from the house entrance next to where he had sat down. On the steps leading up to the door sat Enjolras, a coloured pencil in his hand. He grinned up at him, his eyes darting over his appearance.

‘What are you doing here?’ Grantaire stuttered and pulled at his sleeves again, ‘Where’s Éponine?’

‘Oh, she saw me, called me over and told me to look after you so that no one would steal either you or your stuff, I didn’t pay attention. She said she needed to take her brother to school?’

‘Oh shit,’ Grantaire buried his face in his hands, ‘I forgot about Gavroche. It’s Monday, isn’t it?’

‘Uhm, yes? What other day should it be?’ Enjolras frowned and cleared his throat, ‘What are you doing out here, sitting in the middle of the street? Sit-in?’

‘Nah, just drawing,’ Grantaire closed the sketchbook and pushed the pencil back behind his ear, ‘I thought Jehan might like a sunrise. They never get to see a real one because they need their beauty sleep, so I wanted to show them one.’

‘You’re a good friend, Grantaire.’

He hid a chuckle, ‘Enjolras, I know only a few things but the one thing I know for sure is that I am not a good friend. Everyone I know will confirm that I am the worst person to be around.’

His hands moved back into his pockets, fingers stiffening again. He cleared his throat and tried to relax his posture into appearing laid back. Enjolras did not protest. He still held out the pink pencil for Grantaire to take.

‘Have you finished your drawing?’

‘Yes.’

‘Really? You sounded like you needed this pink pencil pretty urgently.’

‘I’ll finish it at the academy. Do you want to head back?’

He took the pencil and stuffed it together with the sketchbook into his bag, wincing only slightly when the strap felt like it cut into his shoulder. Enjolras’ sharp eyes sized him up before he nodded.

‘It’s Monday, don’t you have any lectures today?’

‘No, at this point of the term we have mostly consultations. The theory lectures are all later in the week. And optional,’ Grantaire adjusted his beanie over his curls and looked up at him, ‘I can just paint most of the time, and I don’t even have to hand in anything.’

Enjolras walked next to him for a few yards without another sound. Grantaire stole a glance at his company. His hair had been tied back loosely but a few strands fell into his eyes. He was wrapped in a coat and carried a stack of papers under his arm.

‘R –‘ he stopped him in front of the building, ‘What has been going on?’

‘What do you mean?’ Grantaire avoided his look, fixing his eyes on the cast-bronze door handle instead. It was shaped like a lion’s head and polished where hundreds of hands touched it every day.

‘You weren’t at the meeting.’

‘Pardon?’

‘The debate society? We have meetings on Fridays, your friends were there but you weren’t. I waited.’

Grantaire’s head snapped back up, his eyes searching for any sign that Enjolras mocked him. He met his look and wrinkled his forehead, but there were no indications for him to have joked. The intensity of Enjolras’ gaze grew too much for him to meet, he turned around and climbed the stairs to the door.

A hand around his wrist stopped him, ‘Grantaire, I’m serious! If anything happened, you can tell me. I thought you would turn up at the meeting, that’s all. Neither of your friends were able or willing to tell me where you were or what you were doing, they all got very quiet instead.’

‘Did they have a good time?’ Grantaire hated his voice for how shaky and insecure it sounded when he finally managed to get the words out, ‘Did they enjoy the meeting and the society?’

‘They did,’ Enjolras nodded, ‘Jehan and Bahorel seemed really interested. I would have liked to have you there, we had a challenging topic to discuss.’

‘Shall we take this to my studio?’

‘Don’t change the subject.’

Grantaire felt the wobble in his knees and the tremor in his hand, his arms and legs hurt and he was craving his stash of alcohol. The calming effects of his medication had worn off at some point and he just wanted to take the edge off everything. Enjolras still held onto his arm but did not resist when Grantaire opened the door.

‘Studio.’

Enjolras followed him through the atrium where a group of students had gathered around the bulletin board. The first lectures of the day were bound to start within an hour and more and more people seemed to come out of their rooms.

‘Hey, Enjolras!’ Courfeyrac waved at them, ‘they will put up new paintings in the staircase. Have you seen the list?’

‘Later, don’t care,’ Enjolras yelled, ‘Grantaire, wait!’

He slipped into the studio just before Grantaire could slam the door shut. The light needed a moment to flicker into life, then the room was bathed into the harsh light.

‘Didn’t you say you don’t like the light?’

Grantaire shook his head, he felt his knees give out and flopped onto the divan, ‘Today I don’t even mind.’

Enjolras sat down at the foot of the sofa. He looked at him, his forehead still wrinkled and put his fingers to his temples, ‘I don’t get you, Grantaire. One day you are the life of the party, quick-witted and unstoppable once you start talking, and the next you lie here like a shot duck. It’s seven in the morning and you behave like you’ve been up for a lifetime. It wouldn’t be so bad if you stopped drinking all the time, you must have a constant hangover. When have I seen you without a bottle? It’s not healthy! Is that why you didn’t come to the meeting, because you were drunk? It would explain why Jehan got really squirmish when I asked them.’

Grantaire knew exactly why Jehan presumably reacted like a cat on a hot roof. His friends had sworn a holy oath to never tell anyone about the true repercussions of his condition. Only Joly, Jehan and Éponine knew everything, anyway, and even they only knew because of their special qualifications. Joly had been his first contact point to find out how he could afford his medication, Jehan had experience with being in therapy and Éponine had worked the night shift when he had first walked into the corner café after the first episode he had after joining the academy. They had found out because he actually needed them or because they were at the right place at the right time. He felt a shaky breath leave his lungs, it sounded wetter than he had hoped for and had him bite down harsh on his lip to keep it in.

‘Grantaire?’ the cushions under his body dipped as Enjolras crawled next to him, ‘Hey, R!’

‘Pathetic,’ Grantaire threw his arm over his eyes to soak up the tears that stung at the still irritated red rims of his eyelids, ‘I’m a pathetic, wimpy –‘

A harsh cough interrupted him and forced him back into the cushions where he curled in on himself and tried to hide it behind his arm. He tried to choke back the next sob, remain calm and lie quiet.

_Don’t let on about how you feel, hide what it looks like, don’t tell anyone who doesn’t know you like we do, trudge through the whole mess_ , his parents’ words echoed through his ears and had him shiver with a sudden cold, _If you can’t, just leave the room you’re in and find another to bawl your eyes out. She won’t know._

‘I’m still fucking it all up, I just can’t get it right, a constant mess,’ he pulled the beanie off his head and used it to wipe away some of the tears, ‘I still – I can’t –‘

The hiccups took over. Afterpains, Jehan called them, because these crying fits were easily triggered and only happened on the days after the long night. They had tried to find out whether there was a scientific explanation for his behaviour but all they came up with was a state of general sensitiveness after the strenuous episodes. It did not help.

‘Grantaire,’ Enjolras’ voice had lost all edge, he sounded wrong to Grantaire’s ears, ‘Please tell me, if there is anything I can do for you! Should I call Jehan or Joly?’

An arm was wrapped around his shoulders, a hand lifted his head off the pillows and something warm came up to hold him. The wet mess of tear-soaked, sweaty curls was pushed out of his eyes and replaced by a hand.

‘Hey, R, deep breaths. Come on. Can you breathe for me?’ Enjolras propped him up against his shoulder, head in the crook of his neck, ‘Easy, R, easy. No one here is thinking you are anything but a brilliant person, a good friend and the best artist I have met at this academy. I don’t know you as well as I would like to but I will make sure to get to know you better. I feel awful about what I said earlier, about the meeting, earlier. I mean, a quick text would have been enough but I get it. If you’re still not entirely back to good health –‘

Grantaire did not have the energy to correct or even explain where Enjolras had assumed the wrong thing. It seemed to him that a cold, fever or even the flu was a good enough excuse to get out of any further discussions about his absence at the debate society meeting and saved him the trouble to destroy whatever ties he had with Enjolras by explaining what really had been going on. Instead, he tried to calm his breathing, control his tears and relax his muscles that had begun to tense up again.

Enjolras gave him a brief summary of what the meeting had brought up in his absence. He managed to keep a calm tone, although Grantaire could tell that the discussion had ended with passionate speeches and an argument. It calmed him down, however implausible it seemed to him. Enjolras’ voice, back to normal with the slight edge that made his hair stand on end, lulled him into a state where the tears dried and his limbs felt like they would support him again. He cleared his throat and patted the arm holding him, signalling that he was ready, he did not want to cause Enjolras any discomfort, after all. For a brief moment, he regretted his decision, missing the reassuring closeness he had been able to indulge in.

‘I have a sunrise to draw,’ Grantaire busied himself with his canvases, brushes and paints, careful not to look back where Enjolras reclined on the divan, his marble features without doubt fixed at his back, ‘I’m sorry. For all this. You should not have witnessed that, I will be the laughing stock for all our friends for weeks.’

‘I don’t think so,’ an easy smile, only a hint too bright to be convincing, spread on Enjolras’ lips, ‘I’m not one to comfort and tell, don’t worry.’

He got up and clapped him on the shoulder, ‘I’m happy to be there for you, if you ever need someone to talk to. Oh, and my offer still stands, come by my music room whenever you feel like it!’

Grantaire smiled for a long time after he had left the studio, drawing and humming under his breath. He knew by intuition that he was out of the woods for this time.


	9. Chapter Nine

Jehan loved the sunrise Grantaire had painted, so much so that they took one of the older sketches he had left at their flat off its nail and swapped it for the pale pink tinted picture of the narrow cobbled street leading up to the academy building. They gushed over the different shades of pink Grantaire had used, the way the sun seemed to flow down the gutter in the rain water and sparkled on the rain wet tarmac.

‘Can you see the flowers R painted? There are actual drops on them, like dew or rain drops, can you see?’ they climbed over the sofa to pull Bahorel closer to the picture they had put up on the wall, as if he was a visitor to the flat, not its permanent occupant.

‘I see it. And you need to calm down before you hurt yourself,’ Bahorel wrapped his arms around Jehan and rooted them to the spot, ‘Thank you for the painting, R, it brings a little light into our otherwise so dark flat.’

‘What are you talking about, I bought new fairy lights the other day!’

‘Yes, and they are by no means a sufficient light source,’ Bahorel piggyback-carried them across the room, back to the sofa where they had gathered for a round of cards and a new recipe Bousset had found, despite not being allowed into the kitchen himself.

‘They are, tell him, R!’

Grantaire looked up from his hand of cards, he had not followed the conversation since Jehan had announced they would put the painting up on the wall. In his defence, he needed to keep an eye on Joly who did try and cheat, feigning a cough to bend over and steal a glance at his cards every now and then.

‘Pardon?’

‘Fairy lights are proper lights,’ Jehan crossed their arms over Bahorel’s, appearing more like a monkey hanging from a tree than an aspiring director and actor.

‘I don’t think so,’ Grantaire grinned, exchanging a quick look with their boyfriend, ‘They will hardly light up one corner of a room whereas a lamp will give you visibility of the whole room.’

‘Thank you, R,’ Bahorel set Jehan down, ‘I appreciate your sacrifice.’

He whipped back around but he barely saw Joly pocket his handkerchief with a satisfied grin before leading a card. Bousset giggled as he drew one, as did Grantaire with a stony glance at his friends. They finished their round quickly; Joly won, to no one’s surprise and bagged the games profits, jellybabies and wine gums. Grantaire finished the beer Jehan had handed him when he had first entered the flat and set the empty bottle aside.

‘Do you have any more?’

‘Bahorel bought a six-pack,’ Jehan chipped in, ‘I’ll get you another one.’

‘Not all at once, Jehan. R’ll finish them in no time and we can take care of him when he’s tipsy,’ Joly sighed, ‘God only knows how he knocks back drink after drink without any real effect but he gets pissed after a couple of beers.’

Grantaire toasted him with the bottle Jehan handed him, ‘I will never seize to build up my tolerance for whatever you offer to me, be it liquor or beer.’

‘That’s something to drink to,’ Bahorel clinked his beer against Grantaire’s, ‘ever thought of building up a tolerance against grape juice?’

‘Nope, and I doubt I ever will.’

‘So wine is the one drink to bring you down?’ Jehan pulled their feet up on the sofa.

‘You know me too well,’ Grantaire winked at them, ‘I have tried for years but it’s still the one thing to actually give me a headache on the morning after.’

Jehan threw a pillow at him, ‘Stop it, you don’t get to joke about that, we do. Next time we go out, I’ll make you drink wine just to laugh at you the day after.’

‘Please don’t,’ Joly frowned, ‘he gets so needy when he has drunk wine.’

‘You turn into a slob whenever you drink,’ Grantaire retorted, ‘and you don’t even tidy up the next day. Neither does that boyfriend of yours.’

‘He doesn’t have to.’

‘Has the administration office even noticed that there are three people in a two people flat?’ Bahorel pulled Jehan into his arms and started braiding their hair, ‘Or even that he isn’t paying rent anymore?’

Grantaire grinned proudly, ‘Not for one second. All they know is that a flat got damaged in a fire a year ago and that the student occupying it moved out. They don’t know where he went, and why would it concern them?’

‘Do they even know how the fire started?’ Jehan curled up between Bahorel and Grantaire, ‘Wasn’t there something wrong with the kitchen?’

‘The stove, to be completely honest, was just outdated,’ Joly explained, ‘a fire hazard and health risk.’

Bousset hid the aggressive blush on his cheeks behind his boyfriend’s shoulders. Before Grantaire could add another quip, however, a knock on the door interrupted their merry round of teasing.

‘Do we expect another guest tonight?’ Bahorel knit his brows together and peered at his partner, they all knew Jehan’s tendency for surprise invitations and additions to their gatherings.

‘Not to my knowledge?’ Jehan detangled themself from Bahorel’s arms and got up, ‘I’ll check. No one touch my gummy worms.’

They skipped away to open the door and Grantaire shoved a handful of gummy worms in his mouth as soon as they were out of sight. The pale gleam of the hallway lights illuminated the living room and they could hear Jehan greet the person at the door.

‘What are you doing on this side of the hallway? I haven’t seen you in ages,’ they sounded happy enough to allow the eavesdropping group in the living room to exclude a few people on their hallway.

‘Not much really, wondered whether you guys were up for some academy internal stuff. You guys are the not-musicians who play instruments, right?’

Grantaire rolled his eyes when he recognised the voice, Bahorel began to chuckle and Joly sighed deeply. They all had met Marius Pontmercy during their first term when he had sat in several of their art, sculpting and drama classes although he was in fact been a music student. He played the trombone like a god and doubled in the trumpet. Grantaire had taken notice of him again when Éponine had confessed her crush for him, unrequited, since Marius and his girlfriend Cosette, a badass harp player, were the model couple of the academy. Marius was also known to have founded numerous bands, house music circles and choirs by going around the apartments asking for hobby musicians. Every once in a while, he tried to enlist their group since half of them played one or more instruments in their spare time.

‘Do you want to come in, Marius?’ Jehan offered, ‘All of us are here, you can just ask what you want.’

‘Thank you, Jehan, that is very kind,’ they came through the hallway, Marius waved awkwardly, ‘hi guys! How are you?’

They murmured something in response, Jehan brought another cup over from the kitchen and pressed it into Marius’ hands. Grantaire collected the cards and shuffled them for another round.

Marius began after he had won the first game, ‘There is a new house music group. It is very new and promising. They are in need of some participants, though.’

‘Who is part of this group?’ Bahorel demanded to know. He had been part of a group once that had treated non-music students like their slaves and lesser people. After this experience, all of them had been careful not to rush into things like the house music groups.

‘What instruments are they looking for?’

‘They would love a contrabass, Bahorel,’ Marius gleamed, almost sure of his success now that they had put forward actual questions, ‘also a flute, Jehan. It’s going to be a classic group. Grantaire, you could just join in with whatever instrument you feel like playing!’

‘Who’s part of that group then, Marius?’

‘Oh some of my best friends, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Cosette –‘

‘We know, Pontmercy,’ Joly snuffled into his handkerchief, ‘your girlfriend is the best part about you.’

‘You know, I second that,’ Marius grinned, ‘Well, I forgot Enjolras. He started the whole thing.’

‘Is Feuilly part of this group as well?’ Grantaire lifted an eyebrow, ‘because you would have saved time if you just said the group members are essentially Les Amis de l’ABC, that debate society.’

‘You could say that, yes,’ Marius nodded carefully, ‘it wouldn’t have to be the whole group at all times. With the instruments and talent we have among us we could actually form several smaller groups that get together to practise. Doesn’t that sound good?’

‘It does,’ nodded Jehan, their eyes glinting, ‘what do we say?’

They looked around and found everybody’s eyes for a moment. It took nothing more than that. Grantaire saw the resolution crumble in each of them.

‘Okay, let’s do it then. We are giving up our house music abstinence to help out.’

‘Before you go, Marius,’ Jehan jumped off the sofa and took his hand, ‘come have a look at this beautiful sunrise R painted for me!’

They tugged Marius towards the wall, pointing at the newly added frame. Grantaire had never questioned Jehan’s seemingly endless supply of right-sized frames but they always produced one for whatever picture or sketch he gave to them.

‘Not too shabby,’ Marius whistled appreciatively, ‘You did a good job with this one.’

Grantaire grinned, evading his look.

‘Look at him, you’ve broken him,’ Joly sighed and shoved Grantaire to the side, ‘he’s gone all bashful and shy now.’

‘And all of us know how rarely that happens,’ Bahorel grinned and leaned back into the pillows, ‘Our very own starving artist.’

‘Speaking of which,’ Bousset yawned, ‘you’re up with the groceries. We’re out of both oatmeal and pasta.’

‘Oh it must be bad,’ Jehan giggled and turned back around to face them, ‘if you don’t even have that left in your cupboard.’

Grantaire groaned and got up, ‘Okay, I’ll get the groceries. Nice to see you again, Marius. When does your new house music group rehearse?’

‘We haven’t decided, yet. Knowing Enjolras, he will want to start with a chamber group. What would you prefer, R?’

Grantaire huffed out a breath, ‘Marius, you are the one who has to be specific for me to be able to say something. Which of my talents would you have?’

‘Which are you offering?’ Marius seemed amused about Grantaire’s way of thinking, ‘You never told me which instruments you play exactly.’

‘Tell him!’ Jehan yelled, throwing their hands in the air, ‘Amaze us, honey. This only gets better with time because the more time he has, the more can he play.’

‘That’s not true,’ Grantaire crossed his arms over his chest, rushing through his list, ‘Violin, viola, piano, guitar, oboe and a little flute and recorder. I just had too much time as a child.’

Marius swallowed hard, ‘Why on Earth didn’t you study music?’

‘I’m heading out, the store’s closing soon,’ Grantaire grabbed his coat and beanie from the pile on the chair next to the door, ‘See you. Text me, Marius!’

He knew it was the cowardly way out. The shop closest to the academy would not close until ten and a glance at his phone told him that it was not even eight. It made no difference, of course, if it provided him with an excuse to leave the conversation that had once again turned to a topic he would rather avoid. His friends would forgive him again for walking out on them. Jehan would most likely try and talk to him about how he could not continue burying himself and everything he did not want to remember.

Joly, Bousset and he took turns paying for their commonly used groceries. Every one of them bought their own sweets, alcohol and whatever else they wanted especially. Grantaire usually added a bottle of booze to the shopping basket, sometimes two, depending on the day. He forced himself to think of the storage in the studio as he walked past the aisles with all the liquors and wines and beers he sometimes wanted to try so bad his throat closed up around the gulp he swallowed. There was no need for more booze in his storage, he knew that. Instead, Joly had asked him to get something for their next movie night.

Grantaire put the groceries away before he went to his room and closed the door. He did not want to see Joly or Bousset’s questioning looks and worrying faces, hear them ask about his emotional status or feel them move around on their tiptoes. The evening was still young enough for him to get started on the dreaded theoretical work he had to do for his courses. His desk was too messy to provide the room he needed to work there, so he lay down on his bed, opening his books and sorting through his pens until he had found one to do his assignments with. Even Professor Lafyette had his students writing essays about inspiration, technique, method and choice of paint and canvas.

The sound of his phone vibrating somewhere in his bag made him look up after a few hours. He leaned over the edge of his bed to grab it and look at the message he had received.

_Enjolras was surprised. Violin and piano? A duet to get back into it?_ – Marius

Grantaire let his head fall back onto his pillow, knocking a breath out of his lungs. Of course this was bound to happen. He did think about sticking a frog in Marius’ boots in revenge because of course he would run and tell Enjolras about all the instruments his friends played.

His phone buzzed again.

_Why didn’t you mention you played?_ – Enjolras

Yes, why had he not told Enjolras, who was so passionate about his piano playing, that he played but hated it? Why had he not told him that his mother had been so set on making him a professional musician that she had all but ruined playing for him? Why had he not told Enjolras, who looked contend and magically beautiful at his piano?

_Didn’t come up._ – R

_Would you like to meet up and try some duets?_ – Enjolras

_Sure. When would it suit you and which instrument?_ – R

_Thursday? There are really nice duets for piano and violin. We can use my room._ – Enjolras

_Ok._ – R

He stuffed his phone under his pillow and read on about Minimalistic art. Five pages later he had no clue what he had just read.

***

It had been some time since he had played the violin outside of his room and even when he did, he had played in the safety of his four walls. He made sure Joly and Bousset were out. No one had heard him play in years which only surfaced when he got his violin case from under his bed and grabbed the stack of violin sheet music he kept next to it and left the flat. Joly and Bousset cooked when he crossed the living area, probably a bake of sorts. They were pressed up against each other, almost missing him slipping past them.

‘Are you off to make music now?’ Bousset waved at him with a spoon, dangerously close to Joly’s face, ‘Have fun!’

Grantaire waved a goodbye before slamming the door shut. It occurred to him that one of his friends had to have been speaking about Enjolras and his plans for Bousset to know about it. He could not bring himself to care. An anxious flutter of his heart, half panic, half excitement, took over his thinking when he reached the stairs. It had been ages since his last attempt to play with someone. His mother had insisted on accompanying him at his last music school recital with violin, viola and oboe. It had gone well, or so he thought, until his mother had called him out on his emotionless playing. That was when he had put an end to recitals, duets and playing anywhere but his own room.

Enjolras’ music room door stood open when he entered the corridor and its occupant was across the hall, leaning against Courfeyrac’s doorframe. He was holding a stack of sheet music, filing through some loose pages. It looked like they were conversing, Enjolras knit his brows together as Grantaire got closer and he could hear something about booking rooms and the unfairness of the process.

‘Hey Grantaire, there you are,’ Courfeyrac grinned and waved when he saw him approach, ‘promise you’ll annoy Enjolras for me. What will you play?’

‘Don’t know yet,’ he set down his violin case, ‘I haven’t really played with anyone in ages.’

‘We’ll just see how much we can get done together,’ Enjolras chipped in and turned to face him, ‘maybe we just try some Etudes for a start.’

Grantaire wanted to point out that he was no beginner but did not dare whilst Courfeyrac listened. It made a difference whether he called out Enjolras on his hypocrisy or tried to convince him that his own shortcomings were less significant than he assumed. Of course this made him the hypocrite but he would not admit that to Enjolras’ face.

‘Are you ready?’

They crossed the hallway with a small wave back at Courfeyrac. Enjolras sat down on the piano stool, swivelling around to face Grantaire. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he set down the sheet music.

‘So, duet? Any ideas what we could play?’

Grantaire set down his violin case on the grand piano and opened it up, ‘The obvious choice would be the _danse macabre_ , right?’

‘Ambitious,’ Enjolras nodded and filed through the music books, ‘Are you sure we can get together on this?’

Grantaire did not blame him for doubting. It was the obvious to do whenever anyone saw him touch any instrument. His fingers were not as nimble and soft as Enjolras’ or Courfeyrac’s. His broad frame did not say musician at first glance. Instead, he had more of a construction worker’s form and he had been reminded of that fact often enough to never again forget it. He let his art speak for him and played music in the small spaces he chose for himself. There was little else he could do, even as he busied himself with his bow and strings.

He set the violin against his shoulder and lifted the bow to tune the instrument.

‘Do you want a tuning –‘

Grantaire stepped around him and hit the standard A. He closed his eyes and listened to the single note he coaxed out of the wooden body. Tuning was easy enough for him as it was from there on. Touching the bow to the strings and getting the instrument to sing brought a relief he had not known he craved. Often enough it felt like an unwelcome obligation. It took him a moment to get through the shiver that ran down his spine as he drew a first melody out of his instrument, daring the tones to rearrange themselves into scales and arpeggios. He allowed the rhythm to take over, fuel his movements and the scaling heights of the melody he followed, hunting it to find the perfect harmony. He held in a breath that threatened to get the better of him, disrupt the flow of the music. He held it in until he could no longer deny himself the air his lungs screamed for and he exhaled as he dove into a crescendo that had his last note ringing in his ears.

‘R, this was beautiful!’ Enjolras’ voice made him flinch, he had forgotten about the other person present, about their duet that still loomed over him and the way it made him feel.

He looked up. It was the first time he saw Enjolras in the full light of day, he realised with a twang of panic. He had seen him at night under the dull light of strip lights, in the cosy darkness of their flats and in the morning sun, but never at midday standing in a golden ray of sunshine that fell through the window. Enjolras, with his hair untied, eyes ablaze and cheeks red. Grantaire could barely stand the sight of him.

His old book on Greek mythology prodded its way to the front of his mind offering the relief of an allegory with the illustrations of the gods in particular coming back to him. The sun god had always been depicted with light hair that curled around his head like a halo, his features sharp as if cast in marble. Enjolras certainly looked like a younger, slimmer version of the picture in what had been his favourite book as a child.

‘Well, I try to keep it up,’ Grantaire finally remembered what words were as he relaxed the arm that carried the violin, ‘do you think we can make something of this?’

Enjolras nodded cheerfully, already filing through the sheet music again, ‘I have a whole stack of piano and violin duets somewhere around here. Do you want to help me search?’

Grantaire set the violin down and turned towards the bookshelf, crouching down in front of it, ’One should think you know your music books.’

‘I do,’ Enjolras threw a balled up paper after him, ‘it just gets a little messy if I don’t sort it every few days. I go through a lot of sheet music.’

‘I can imagine.’

They carded through the stacks of sheet music, books, booklets and loose pages in silence. Enjolras was bent over the piano, hair falling into his face, shielding him from Grantaire like a curtain. He was busy looking through the music Enjolras kept on the shelf but whenever he looked up he saw the soft, gleaming curls and a hint of the features they were hiding. The sun was still illuminating him and Grantaire thought about his sun god again.

‘Got it, _danse macabre_!’ Grantaire held the sheet music up and waved it at Enjolras who had jumped at hearing him shout, ‘Wow, you really need a better filing system for your sheet music.’

‘Thanks, R. Very helpful,’ Enjolras took the book from his hands, ‘feel free to come in here and sort my music, if you ever have an afternoon off.’

‘Yeah, sure,’ Grantaire shook his head laughing, ‘so you’re promoting slavery in the hidden backrooms of the academy?’

It was too easy to tease Enjolras given that he could not leave such a comment unfollowed. His cheeks burned the brightest red, his eyes darkened and his brows moved together until his stare seemed to want to pin him to the ground. Grantaire grinned, overall satisfied with the flustered anger caught in his eyes. He had put that there, the righteous fury that threatened to throttle whatever was put in its way was result of him pushing the right buttons.

He was sure Enjolras knew that as well, it was all that kept him from going on a rampage. There was a rant about inappropriate jokes lodged in his throat, Grantaire could almost hear it break out. He was sure that he would have loved to scold him for his comment, run him into the ground and make sure the lesson was learned but Enjolras just pressed his lips together in the attempt to keep any sound in. Not one word was uttered and Grantaire almost succumbed to the possibility to needle him even more.

‘Are you quite done?’

He could not hide the giggle for longer, it ploughed through his careful set expression and burst out. Enjolras looked hurt for a moment before stepping around the piano to shove him in the shoulder. They shared a look, one annoyed, the other teary-eyed with laughter. The moment passed as Enjolras poked him in the side, causing Grantaire to double over in a fit of laughter.

‘Don’t,’ he gasped for air, ‘don’t do that!’

Seeing Enjolras’ face light up at the plea, he knew that he had handed him the ultimate weapon against himself. Grantaire stuck his tongue out at him and finally got up from where he had crouched in front of the bookshelf. He took the violin back up and settled it on his shoulder, waiting for Enjolras to open the booklet. His eyes scanned the sheet music. Some long forgotten memory pressed against his temples and pulsed through his brain, urging him to give in and take a look at it.

Enjolras sat down at the piano and watched him play. Grantaire could feel his eyes on him, warm and appreciative, not like the eyes that had usually watched him, if at all. He tried to ignore the way his heart fluttered at the mere thought that there was somebody in the same room as him who did not seem to regret their presence as he did his best to avoid squeaky tones.

He joined in at some point, hitting the keys with the precision of someone who had played the tune before. Grantaire realised that he was likely to have had a recital with the exact piece they played. Just like him. He had not forgotten the recital his mother had forced him to. The suit he had worn had scratched and choked him, and his fingers had shaken enough to make him drop the sheet music he had not been allowed to use, anyway. His mother had watched as he scrambled to collect the loose pages, nose wrinkled and chin turned up before fastening his tie to the extent that he could barely breathe. The lack of words from her had stung more than the tears in his eyes as he got ready to walk up to the stage to play the piece in a duet with his teacher, and when he tried to find her face in the crowd she had been busy with her calendar. He had played the whole _danse macabre_ , tears in his eyes and sniffing to keep them from spilling. It had been his last recital playing the piano, instead he had started to play the oboe, hoping this instrument would possess the ability to capture his mother’s attention during a concert. It had been in vain, she had always looked somewhere else, spoken with someone more important, complimented kids that were cuter and more put together in their performances than he ever could be. He had played the _danse macabre_ once again, on the violin, at a school concert. His mother had not even shown up that time, too busy organising a summer school, or a charity orchestra or something of the like.

He had not expected to ever be able to feel joy as he played and yet, when he opened his eyes and actually looked at his surroundings, bow stroking the violin softly he felt content. Enjolras smiled up at him from the piano stool, a cautious little thing that warmed up the room as he played the last bars. It left Grantaire’s skin tingling and wishing for more. He reminded himself of how quickly a moment could turn and become something cruel and disappointing and how often he had experienced it. One smile was not enough for him to let anyone in, even if they looked like a Greek god reincarnated. Especially when they looked like a Greek god reincarnated. He lowered the violin and nodded, almost satisfied with himself. The feeling bubbled in his stomach, a trace of what could possibly be something he could get used to.

‘That was wonderful, R,’ Enjolras got up and patted his shoulder, ‘we should really keep that up, it is wonderful to finally have a duet partner again.’

‘What, you don’t duet with Combeferre or Courfeyrac?’ Grantaire knew he sounded ridiculous, ‘Did it really never cross your mind that you can duet with your friends and they might enjoy it?’

‘I am duetting with friends.’

‘Sure you do, Apollo,’ he laughed and closed his violin case, ‘with whom do you play, then?’

‘Are you for real, R?’

‘What?’ Grantaire knit his brows together as he realised that the name he had given Enjolras had slipped out, but he could not bring himself to care about it, ‘You must have seen yourself in the mirror at some point, right? Ancient Greek gods have nothing on you!’

‘That is…flattering but not what I meant,’ Enjolras shook his head, ‘let me know when you figure it out. I’ll be waiting.’

It came to him just as they called it a day, right between door and frame. The revelation rooted him to the spot as he looked back to where Enjolras stood next to the armchair, one eyebrow cocked at him in expectation. He was almost embarrassed by the soft ‘oh’ that got out as he pinpointed the exact moment Enjolras saw the realisation break out all over his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think of it!


	10. Chapter Ten

Professor Lafayette stayed true to his promise. Two weeks after Grantaire had handed in his painting, he received an email containing an invitation to come by during his office hours to discuss the grade for the work. He let Jehan know where he would be before work since they had asked him to sneak them and Bahorel into the museum for an early date night. They had not been able to resist the lure of the newest exhibition that presented some of Oscar Wilde’s private correspondence, enough to get Jehan to forget every trouble he gave Grantaire by asking for admittance. None of his colleagues said a word about his friends anymore, most of them could just walk in the main door, throw a ‘Grantaire knows’ towards the till and were waved through, by this point. Jehan was the only one – beside Joly – who still asked for permission. He stopped working on the riverside he still had to finish since he was waiting for the special pigment to arrive. Instead, he grabbed his bag, packed his uniform, sketchbook and journal and sent Joly a message, telling him not to wait for him at lunch since he would simply get something on the way to the museum to wolf down in the breakroom in between tours.

It was raining when he left the building with a brief look into the mailbox, but nothing had been delivered for either him or his flatmates. The rain was a certain sign of the nearing cold weather, the maintenance team had put of leaflets informing all residents that the electricians were about to switch on the heating for the whole building. He pulled the hood over his head and hurried down the road towards the art department. A few students came towards him from one of the cafés within the university premises, one or two lecturers greeted him with a sharp nod and continued their conversation without further attention directed at him as he slipped onto the bench in front of Professor Lafayette’s office.

‘There you are,’ the professor opened his door a few minutes later and waved him inside, ‘come in, come in. I just finished a new brew, would you like to try a cup?’

‘Sure, why not,’ Grantaire closed the door after himself and sat in the visitor chair in front of Lafayette’s desk, ‘what have you mixed together today?’

‘My very own flavoured tea, with just a dash of lavender,’ Lafayette poured two cups of tea and held one out to Grantaire, ‘To good artwork, neverending inspiration and this esteemed academy for providing us with everything we would not have received two-hundred years ago.’

Their cups clinked together. Grantaire took a cautious gulp of the steaming drink and pulled a face, ‘A dash, sir?’

Lafayette bore a similar expression as he set down his cup of tea, ‘I seem to have miscalculated. Would you like something to wash that taste out of your mouth? A brandy maybe?’

Grantaire nodded, left breathless by the strong flavour the flower had left in his throat, ‘You keep brandy in your office?’

‘Just one bottle for occasions out of the ordinary. Exceptionally good grades, gallery openings, exhibition worthy pieces, and the odd foul taste left by one of my experiments,’ he got a bottle out of his desk and set it onto the surface, ‘help me out with some glasses out of the cupboard over there, lad.’

Grantaire bent over the arm rest and opened the dark, wooden door to take out two of the filigree glasses Lafayette kept there. His tutor filled the glasses and toasted him.

‘Now, lad,’ Lafayette leaned back in his chair, ‘how is your work coming along?’

‘Didn’t you want to discuss my mark, sir?’ Grantaire blinked in confusion.

‘Well, yes but if that is the only reason that lures you here into my humble chambers I may as well make use of the time, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘I’ll have you know how this sounds to external ears, sir,’ Grantaire grinned and sipped his brandy, ‘if it was my pleasant company you were to seek, all you needed to do was ask.’

‘You see, lad, this is where you are wrong. I cannot be accused of favouritism by having you come in for a drink and a chat every now and then.’

‘I am sorry for putting you in such a predicament,’ Grantaire leaned back, ‘I’ll have to sneak in then.’

Lafayette gifted him a small smile and cleared his throat, ‘Well then, your painting. I must say, it is the best you ever handed in. it shows excellent command of colour, brush and technique. The choice of imagery you put forward is an unusual one but it works. Given that you did attend my courses on both Impressionism and Realism, I assume you want it credited as your merger?’

Grantaire huffed out a laugh, ‘I should like to know the grade first before I decide what I will have it down for. I can easily hand in another realistic piece within days. Or impressionistic.’

‘I am more than sure of it, lad. But there is no need for it, Grantaire. This painting is exceptional,’ Lafayette nodded towards the great easel he kept near the window, ‘what did you call it?’

‘ _Catch Me I’m Falling_ ,’ Grantaire provided immediately, ‘I first wanted it to be the working title but it seemed more than fitting to accompany it as a whole.’

‘Falling for what, my dear lad?’ Lafayette’s eyes glistened in their deep sockets, the wrinkles he bore when laughing dug deeper into his skin than before, ‘There is something going on beyond this painting, a question is raised but not answered. Which raises another question, for me, and I wonder whether you know the answer.’

‘Which question?’ Grantaire realised that his painting was propped up on the easel in front of the window, for everybody to see who entered the office.

‘Do you know what he is asking?’

Grantaire felt himself draw in a breath, ready to give his tutor a quick, witty response – only to realise that he did not know what he could say to it. He shrugged, catching himself quickly and laughing it off as he tore his eyes off the face he had set on canvas.

‘Whoever could assume to know every meaning and implication a painting brings before the beholder’s eye,’ he said and ruffled his hair.

‘Truly spoken, my dear boy,’ Lafayette nodded, ‘First honours of eighty-five percent.’

‘Eighty-five?’ Grantaire cried out, his feet twitching as if they wanted to carry him upright.

‘You can’t expect me to give you a full hundred, can you?’ his tutor was laughing at him now, eyes sparkling, ‘I have a reputation to uphold, can’t just hand out full marks!’

‘An A star would have been nice,’ Grantaire sulked and crossed his arms.

‘My poor lad,’ Lafayette laughed, ‘An A star? Have you ever heard of an artist who had A stars and got their art into museums?’

‘Don’t you have to die before your paintings are put in a museum?’

‘Don’t you go nit-picky on me, lad,’ the professor wagged a finger at him, ‘there is no need to look so stern and disappointed, it is not like you.’

‘It is not like you to say that a painting is good and then give out eighties.’

The corners of his tutor’s mouth were tugged upwards in a smile, ‘No worries, dear boy, your old professor won’t obstruct your career with insufficient grades. The teaching body of this academy is a lot more modern than they used to be, no one of us will any of our promising students go without what they deserve. A colleague of mine, Lamarque, over in the music department, goes to every concert or recital any of his students put on, even if it is not part of the final grade. He wants to make his mind up about what they do outside of his lessons, and if they do well, it will influence his verdict.’

Grantaire knit his brows together and nodded slowly, ‘Makes sense for the music students, not so much for us, given how little gallery space there is around town.’

‘You’ve had showings, by boy, didn’t you?’

Grantaire nodded, ‘Few. More than some but less than those who can buy the space in galleries with money.’

Lafayette nodded and grabbed his pipe from a pile of books on his desk, ‘No one suggests that the society is quite as fair as we would imagine it to be. If there was only something that could be done about it.’

The thought stayed with Grantaire as he left the academy. He needed to get something to eat before he showed up at work, there was no way he would stand through six hours, three guided tours and Jehan’s never seizing questions about the exhibition. Bahorel would not be able to keep them occupied for long once they saw something they liked. The flood of questions that would roll against him was nothing he had not experienced countless times before.

He slipped into one of the coffee shops that lined the streets leading towards the old building that housed the museum. The que was longer than he would have liked but by no means too long to make him late for work. The barista nodded as she saw him and turned away from the cup of coffee she had been preparing to get started on another one. Fluidly, another member of staff took her place and continued what she had been doing. It took him a moment to realise what she was doing. Guilt bloomed in his guts, his memory recalling her trying to give him her number a year before, cheeks rosy with quiet admiration. It had taken him a few weeks to catch up on her feelings for him. She had looked hopeful when he addressed her and he had that crushed that hope by telling her the five words that had wiped her sweet smile off her face after she had politely asked for his phone number, ‘Thank you, but I’m gay.’

She still made him his coffee and gave him a sandwich on the way when he was in a rush to get to work, a woeful smile on her lips, even though he had never officially learned her name. The tag on her apron read Azelma. She sometimes reminded him of Éponine.

He had five minutes when he slipped into the break room in the museum basement. One of his colleagues sat at the small table, phone pressed against his ear. Grantaire received a short nod but no further attention as he changed into his uniform of white shirt and livre before rushing to the front desk to collect his first group for a tour around the exhibitions. A chattering bunch of pensioners awaited him, all ready to go on a trip through the different epochs and eras of paintings they were to experience. A quick introduction followed by a few questions allowed him to gather a brief understanding of what he was dealing with. Six married couples, a few elderly ladies – old friends on a cultural trip – and two men with glasses and books they brought to read for background information. Grantaire held back a sigh. These two would be the ones to look out for, they would be the ones questioning everything he was going to say, would assume to know more than him just because they had read some books.

He managed to get through the first room without disruption, giving his prepared little speeches about single pieces, artists and techniques. It was in the second room that he first realised the reason why the group of ladies that had fallen back by a few paces, giggled every few moments. Grantaire sighed before starting his little speech about a Dutch still life. Sometimes, the booksmart people were not the worst about his tours. Sometimes, the eternally single ladies with their hungry eyes and lingering handshakes were worse. It happened whenever one of his curls slipped out of the careful mess he styled them into. Just after he pushed them back, out of his eyes and behind his ears, the bunch of women would snicker, hiding their amusement and quick glances behind their hands. There was something about the way they looked at him that reminded him of wolves circling their prey. He pushed a few curls out of his eyes that obstructed his view on the masterpiece he was going to talk about, earning another round of hysterical giggles from the back of his group.

He concluded his tour in front of the van Gogh, displayed under the golden light of small, cleverly hidden lamps in an otherwise black room. There were quite a few people scattered around the room, some with audio guides, some with leaflets. Grantaire waved his little group towards one of the corners, the one from where he felt like they would have the best view onto the painting. Three sentences into his explanation he was interrupted by one of the booksmart men in the front row.

‘Are you sure about when he painted this piece? I read that –‘

‘Yes, it has been argued that van Gogh began the set this painting belongs to at least ten years before his suicide,’ Grantaire sighed and tried to remember why he had agreed to give guided tours, he had been perfectly fine behind the counter selling tickets and trinkets, ‘however, it is dated in the lower right corner.’

He continued with his speech, only interrupted twice by the know-it-alls and three times by the old ladies who did seem to voice more interest in his shifts and phone number than what he had to say about the painting in front of them. He brushed them off with the sorry glance he had perfected over time. The tour ended at the front desk, where Grantaire wished them a pleasant stay in town before turning towards the break room to gulp down some water in between tours.

‘R!’

He did not even make it to the break room. Jehan stood at the main entrance, they waved enthusiastically and jumped on the spot. Bahorel, broad face mirroring a certain shame at his partner’s behaviour, stood next to him, rooted to the spot. His cheeks were cherryred, tinted with the embarrassment of their childishness.

‘R, we are here!’

‘Yes, I can see that,’ Grantaire pulled them past his colleagues, at least two of them snickered and wolf-whistled as Jehan skipped past, ‘come on now you bloody fool.’

Bahorel patted him on the back and draped his arm over his shoulders, ‘It was either the museum or wandering in the woods. It felt safer to be here, where they cannot run off chasing fairies.’

‘That only happened a few times,’ Jehan mumbled.

‘Twenty times are decidedly more than anybody would deem normal,’ Bahorel steered Jehan off, towards the exhibition, ‘Thank you, Grantaire. We owe you.’

‘That you do,’ Grantaire nodded and hugged Jehan, ‘let me know when you’re leaving. I’ll be here, working.’

His friends turned towards the exhibition entrance, fingers intertwined. Jehan’s head rested against their boyfriend’s shoulder as they walked in step, swaying with the obvious bliss of a healthy relationship. The love between the two seemingly contradictory people had so often inspired not only him but their entire group of friends.

It gave him hope, sometimes. If Bahorel and Jehan were able to be happy together, truly happy, there was a chance that other people who seemed to defy what was considered the norm could find their happiness as well, somehow. He had often dreamed of the kind of relationship Jehan and Bahorel had, two minds thinking the same, hearts beating in step and hands finding to each other, no matter how far apart. When the pain inside grew too strong, he tried to imagine what it would be like. He dreamed of warmth, intimate whispers and late nights in companionable silence. He dreamed of coffee dates, walks through exhibitions and a family home. At some point, he wanted to be able to feed a family with his art, have his own gallery or work for a museum, full-time and with all the benefits the job would bring. It was an idle fantasy but he enjoyed dreaming about it from time to time.

Bahorel and Jehan were out of sight when he found back to himself. He turned and walked back to the front desk to gather the next group for his tour, leaving all thoughts of intimacy and bliss behind a sculpture by Rodin. His thoughts were not suited to accompany him on his job, no matter how much it hurt to look at his friends. Their happiness was to be admired, even if he could not hope to reach anything comparable by his own means as long as the heavy darkness was threatening to wash over his thoughts at any time.

His second tour was about as regretful as the first. He was in the company of fewer old ladies which meant that fewer hungry eyes were on him but their number was evened out by the number of booksmart know-it-alls. Three of them wore jackets with patches at the elbows, two had brought the books they had read before entering the museum and one filled every moment that Grantaire remained silent with additional knowledge and facts, most of them straying slightly from the truth. He ignored it all and allowed them to lecture their fellow art fans about what Grantaire had forgotten to say, according to them. No one paid attention to them since the majority of the group was still made up of old ladies that hung on his every word.

It ended with a hand a little too close to his belt and an only half suppressed squawk. As a result of the unexpected closeness to one of the older ladies, Grantaire made his way to the break room slightly more annoyed and agitated than usual, cursing under his breath and looking back over his shoulder with a sour expression. The group had been a birthday party, as it had turned out and the grabby lady the birthday girl, dared to get handsy by her friends.

‘I hate this job,’ he said to no one particular in the break room as he threw himself onto a chair and slumped over the table.

‘Doesn’t everybody?’ Jehan leaned against the doorframe, one hand tangled in their hair, ‘sorry, I would give you a hug but the door says _Staff Only_.’

Grantaire pushed himself off the table, hair flopping into his face as he grabbed his bag, ‘I didn’t know you were still here. Where’s Baz?’

‘Well, the party-pooper went home after we had seen everything three times. He has no stamina whatsoever,’ Jehan held their hands out for Grantaire to hold as they walked through the entrance hall towards the main door, ‘you look pale, R. Are you taking care of yourself?’

‘Yes, mum,’ Grantaire rolled his eyes and opened the door for them, ‘are you sure that you have not adopted some kids by accident? You seem awfully parental.’

Jehan laughed into the chilly air, dusk settling in as they walked down the road. Their hair was tinted red by the last rays of sunshine that poured through the gaps between the houses, dancing like a veil in the soft wind that made a few fallen leaves dance on the pavement. Jehan danced as well, skipping next to Grantaire who had a hard time keeping up with them. They hummed under their breath, a melody sweet as much as lugubrious.

‘How’s your play coming along?’ Grantaire tried to keep them grounded next to himself, ‘Last time you talked about it, you mentioned casting a few of your drama pals?’

‘Oh yes, I managed to fill all the roles,’ they beamed at him, eyes sparkling with the joy of a well-planned project, ‘we started rehearsing a few days ago.’

‘Brilliant, Jehan! Remember to send me an invitation once you know when you open.’

‘Obviously’, Jehan tugged his arm over his shoulders and slipped closer to Grantaire’s broad form, ‘Can you keep me warm until we get back?’

Grantaire wiped his nose with his sleeve and slipped his arm closer around them, ‘So that is the reason you keep Baz around? To keep your tiny bones warm?’

They laughed loud and clear, snuggling into Grantaire’s side, ’He has his advantages. Have you ever fallen asleep on his chest? He is like a loud snoring space heater, very comfy and squishy.’

‘I doubt anything on Bahorel is squishy,’ Grantaire pulled a face at the thought of what options there were for their conversation to continue, ‘and before you say anything, I can imagine how you found out. I see enough of Baz when I spar with him.’

‘Oh come on, you haven’t sparred in ages. And before you say anything,’ they threw him a dirty look, ‘I am the first person who sees his bruises.’

‘I was assured you take good care of him,’ Grantaire tousled their hair and grinned down at him, ‘we can all tell when –‘

Jehan kicked him in the shin. They made their way down the road, walking in step next to each other towards the academy. Once they reached the towering building, Jehan pressed themselves up on their toes and kissed him on the cheek, their lips pressing softly against his skin.

‘You probably crave your paints and brushes now. Don’t stay up for too long, chèrie, no matter what your brain wants you to do.’

‘I’ll try. Thank you, sweet poet of my lonely hours,’ Grantaire pressed a kiss to their temple, relishing in what little touch and warmth he could extract from this moment, ‘give Baz my regards.’

Jehan turned around, waved and skipped towards the main staircase, leaving Grantaire alone with his thoughts. He opened his studio door but did not switch the lights on. Without the pigment, it would not be possible to finish the river painting according to what he had imagined it to be like or what he remembered of the evening.

He remembered Enjolras, light hair unruly and his throat working to gulp down Grantaire’s whisky, a picture of a Greek god in the wrong surroundings. His eyes had hidden something, guarded something deeper and darker than what he would have guessed Enjolras was burdened with. It was almost intriguing, if not self-destructive, to find out what it had been that still had him shuddering when he thought back to it. A part of his mind was convinced to have seen something similar to what he himself felt constantly, whenever the grey feeling crept up on him. It was his companion, consolation when nobody else was close or the memories grew too strong to control them. The tempting thought that Enjolras was guarding an equally terrible knowledge held its fascination. He could almost imagine himself asking the other what it was. Enjolras would deflect it, of course, would probably ask what Grantaire hid in response to distract him.

No question would ever burn as much as this one, he was sure of it. Grantaire opened his cabinet and took out a bottle of brandy. He chugged down a third of its contents and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. It burned its way down his throat and settled in a warm knot in his stomach. The moment of relief washing over him was brief enough but it helped him calm down a little as he threw himself down onto the divan.

‘Grantaire, you are a goddamn idiot,’ he sighed and rubbed his eyes with the hand that was not preoccupied with the bottle the other was still holding.

He dozed off an hour later only to wake up at four in the morning, gulp down more brandy and stagger up the stairs into their flat. As soon as he had reached it, he scuffled into the bathroom, pushed the door shut and made to kneel in front of the toilet. The violent retches that convulsed his guts with pain exhausted him so much that he fell asleep next to the toilet, sitting on the mat.

Joly found him in the morning and poured a litre of coffee down his throat before shoving him under the shower to soak him to the bone, clothes included. Once he was dripping wet and wrapped in one of Bousset’s towels – the one’s they washed with fabric softener – his friends sat him on the sofa, shoved another cup of coffee in his hands and slipped onto the armchair facing him.

‘R, this is an intervention,’ Bousset crossed his legs, ‘you have hit an all-time low.’

‘What happened?’ Joly pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, ‘I thought you were alright? Jehan said you seemed happy…or at least content?’

Grantaire groaned and buried his face in his hands, searching his memory for whatever had led to the disastrous circumstances of his collapse in the bathroom. A faint memory of hands on his backside and giggles behind his back had him gag. Joly threw him a worried glance.

‘Shit,’ Grantaire felt the blood leave his cheeks, ‘yesterday was Friday, right?’

‘Yes,’ Bousset wrinkled his forehead, ‘Why?’

‘Enjolras’ debate society had a meeting! I forgot to tell him that I would not be able to attend. Again!’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you thought of it.


	11. Chapter Eleven

He spent the day throwing up a little more, cooking lunch for Joly and Bousset and finally mustering up the courage to ask Bahorel for a sparring session. Bahorel, always ready for a fight, agreed immediately and deflected any of Grantaire’s attempts to set a date a week later. He insisted that they would only lose time if they waited, given that Grantaire had not entered a gym in a long time.

‘What changed your mind?’ his friend taped his knuckles with the rainbow-coloured medical tape Jehan had given all of them for Christmas, ‘We haven’t sparred in months.’

‘Maybe I need to occupy my mind with something that is neither art, happy couples nor depression.’

Bahorel nodded, adding another layer of tape to his fingers. His broad face was serious as he pulled his gloves on but his eyes sparkled. They were in the gym behind the academy, a place both of them had seen more of than their classes during the first terms. Bahorel had made room in his planner for regular sessions as soon as Grantaire had asked for a session; according to him, set dates would Grantaire make feel obliged to keep the training up.

 ‘You’ll be a little rusty after all this time without training. Are you sure you want to start against me? I have shown Jehan a few moves, if you want to bite the mat after a few soft strokes. They have a talent for martial arts but don’t like to punch people.’

‘Baz, I thank you for your concern but it’ll be alright. Muscle memory, you know, I’ll still be able to kick your ass.’

‘You never kicked my ass, R,’ Bahorel rolled his shoulders, ‘you talk too much, that’s always been your problem. You want to fight, fight! You want to box, box! But you shouldn’t talk when you want to fight. That doesn’t work out.’

Grantaire pushed past him and climbed in the ring, mouth guard in place, ‘Come on then, prepare yourself for defeat.’

It took Bahorel less than five minutes to get him onto the mat, unable to move.

‘Oh come on, man,’ Grantaire tried to wiggle out from under his friend’s knee, pushing his hands into the mat, ‘let me go.’

‘Not so confident now, are you?’ Bahorel grinned down on him and put more of his weight on his knee, squeezing a breath out of his lungs, ‘you should give up now, before you pull a muscle trying to run away.’

Grantaire fought against the weight on top of him, eventually rolling out from under his friend. He jumped to his feet and returned to a fighting stance.

‘Up you get then, or are you tired already?’ he watched as Bahorel pushed himself back onto his feet, his friend was leering at him out of dark eyes, rolling his shoulders, ‘I expected more of you!’

Bahorel shook his head, a smirk promising more pain and tricks sitting in the corner of his mouth. He brushed off the dust on his knees casually and walked over towards Grantaire, who grinned in response and wiped his mouth with the glove.

‘You really are confident,’ Bahorel started to move around him, eyes never leaving, he watched his every move, ‘even though you move slower than an old woman.’

Grantaire did neither respond, nor did he allow the tease to get to him. They concentrated, focussing on the person in front of them, waiting. They knew each other’s tactics well enough, had spent more time working them out together than they had on their own and unlike Grantaire, Bahorel had trained even without his friend as a sparring partner. It came down to the first move and who made it, both of them had their experiences with rushed attacks and flatfooted attempts to make the other trip and fall. Bahorel had caught him off-guard during their first round, he would not let it happen again. He had his guard up as much as Bahorel, he was still strong enough to keep up with him. His only disadvantage was the embarrassingly fast rate at which his legs decided to get tired. Having stopped training after a particularly bad attack, he had let himself go more than usual, resulting in a soft belly and breathlessness after only little exercise. He hated himself for it, almost as much as for everything else he did to his body.

‘You won’t be able to keep this up,’ Bahorel held his head low and his fists up, ‘why not end it now? Wouldn’t that be easier? More comfortable?’

Grantaire made a swipe at him, just catching his body. Bahorel jumped back, surprise written all over his face. He always needed a second to recollect himself before he was able to counter. Grantaire knew that as much as Bahorel himself since he counted on using it against his friend. He let a quick succession of blows directed against his upper body follow the first punch, Bahorel stumbled backwards and shook his head in disbelief as Grantaire stuck his leg out to trip him. At some point, both of them had accepted that they would unavoidably play dirty and use whatever chance they got to fell their opponent.

‘Bastard,’ Bahorel grinned up at him from the mat, ‘suits you to go for the legs instead of playing it out.’

Grantaire let himself fall onto his friend, sprawling out like a starfish on top him, ‘It’s my only advantage in this situation. Why should my legs be the only weak ones to be exploited? You are on the ground, I’m on top of you and I can’t go another round without black spots dancing in front of my eyes; doesn’t that sound like a successful training session?’

Bahorel rolled his eyes but nodded in agreement a moment later, ‘You should come down here more often. I’ll get you back into shape in no time, just you wait.’

The prospect of getting Bahorel to drill him back to what he had called the one thing he was proud of was somewhat appealing to him. He had not necessarily missed the sensation of hard muscles where he now was mostly soft but he had been going about his life with close to no exercise, clearly less than advisable for his age. The effects had become clear to him when Bahorel had thrown him to the mat after only a few minutes. It had taken him rounds and rounds just six months previous to get as much as close to Grantaire. A fight like that was out of the question for the time being, not when Bahorel was able to march through his defences like a bullet through a piece of cloth.

‘We’ll call it a day, then,’ Grantaire agreed, ‘I look forward to defeating you again, Baz.’

He felt better once they had showered and changed into normal clothes in the small changing room the gym provided for the students and were on their way back to the academy, both smelling like the lavender shampoo Jehan used and that almost all of their friends had found incredibly relaxing. The nausea that had clung to his guts, even as they entered the gym, had finally left him and his head was clearer, as much as his stomach empty. Bahorel had promised him something to eat at his flat and Grantaire, knowing that Jehan used Saturdays to bake whatever ridiculously difficult recipe they had found in a dusty bookshop, could do nothing but try and laugh his rumbling stomach off.

As they entered the flat, the bake of the day turned out to be raspberry tartlets. Jehan was still in the kitchen, pink, frilly apron wound around their hips and hair piled up in a bun that Bahorel loosened with gentle fingers, prompting them to tilt their head back to meet him. Their kiss seemed too chaste and pure for anyone to see and Grantaire felt uncomfortable looking at it, so he busied himself with a few plates that he put on the table before turning back to the kitchen. Jehan and Bahorel had detangled themselves and were now smiling knowingly at each other. A whole conversation seemed to have passed between them within nothing but a look and the smile hidden in the corner of Jehan’s mouth. The content of this conversation remained unspoken in front of Grantaire.

‘How did it go?’

‘R is a little out of shape,’ Bahorel grinned and sat down at the table, ‘but nothing I cannot bend back into shape.’

Jehan patted Grantaire’s back and set down a plate with tartlets, ‘Don’t listen to him, you look great. Have a tartlet.’

‘That is a lie and all of us know it. I have more of a walrus than a boxer now,’ Grantaire took one of the tartlets, ‘Stop me if I eat more than this one.’

The twinkle in Bahorel’s eye resembled something he had seen multiple times in the boxing ring when he looked forward to attacking his opponent for the first time. Jehan cleared their throat and nodded towards the plate.

‘Eat, Baz. Stop scaring R.’

‘I’m not scared.’

‘I know, chérie,’ Jehan took his hand, ‘I’m stroking his ego. He needs it from time to time. Also, you are allowed to eat nice things, even if you’re trying to get back into shape. You could talk about it with Éponine or Joly, they know stuff about proper nutrition.’

Grantaire kissed them on the cheek, ‘You are a treasure, I hope Baz tells you that often enough. If not, just come by our place, we’ll make sure you get to hear all the compliments you deserve.’

‘I am perfectly capable of complimenting my partner,’ Bahorel mumbled and took another tartlet, ‘don’t tell me you’ve come here to stir things up.’

‘I only came for the baked goods,’ Grantaire lifted his hands in defeat.

‘Are you still spending your nights with Enjolras?’ Jehan asked a moment later, mouth stuffed full with raspberries and cream.

‘Depends,’ Grantaire sighed and sat back, ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘There were some late night concerts in the music corridor, right? And you showed him your studio!’

‘He invited you to his meetings,’ Bahorel chipped in, ‘and he kept looking to the door when you didn’t show up.’

‘Really? Et tu, Baz? He invited all of us, and I have missed the second meeting in a row, now. I doubt he’s inclined to forgive that, if he ever meant anything by it.’

‘He invited all of us but he meant you, trust me on that,’ Jehan’s smile had something eerie about it, Grantaire had never been able to grasp its meaning, ‘and you were working last night, I’m sure he’ll understand if you tell him.’

‘I also got drunk beyond reason without being triggered or upset. I have come to the conclusion that I got drunk out of boredom,’ he gave up denying what was undoubtedly true, ‘Imagine being so bored that the only thing you can do to occupy yourself is to drink until you don’t remember you were bored in the first place.’

Jehan shook their head, ‘I can’t imagine, chérie. The only thing I can think about this is how sorry I am that you experience this. I wish I could come up with something that helps you in these situations but I think by now all of our friends know how unrealistic that is. The only thing I can really offer is a friendly ear and baked goods to distract you. Did you know that I am no longer limiting baking to Saturdays? I have something here at all times now so you could have something to eat instead of a drink.’

‘You can call me at any time,’ Bahorel provided, ‘we can go to the gym and punch each other until every thought of drinking and alcohol has left your sorry little brain.’

‘Baz!’

‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ Bahorel squared off with Jehan, another look carried another wordless conversation and Grantaire realised how much he envied both of them for what they had, even though he did not begrudge their relationship.

‘Just because it’s true doesn’t mean you get to call him stupid,’ Jehan winced, ‘sorry, that did not come out like I wanted it to.’

‘And you claim to be a poet, playwright, wordsmith,’ Grantaire could not hide his laughter, ‘Great work, Jehan, I am proud of you.’

‘Don’t mock me, sir,’ Jehan went a little red, their fingers trying to keep a strong hold on their fork.

‘Never,’ Grantaire sighed, feeling his throat relax a little, ‘I’ll head out in a minute, no happy couple should spend a whole Saturday with me moping about their flat.’

He stayed true to his word and left them a little later. With some of the remaining tartlets wrapped in foil to share with Joly and Bousset. He left them on the kitchen table, his roommates were not in and the note they had left on the fridge read _Date Night!!!! – At the Musain_. Of course they were gone; everybody but him seemed to have their lives planned out, after all.

He grabbed his soft, green jumper from the pile of clean laundry and pulled it over his shirt. Even though he dreaded another night in his studio, it seemed like it all lead him back to it, even if he was merely staring at empty canvases before his brain demanded to be dulled. His friends would have scolded him for thoughts like these but they were not around, Joly and Bousset happily dating and Jehan and Bahorel already too much of a couple of babysitters for him. He was a grown man after all, a grown man with the ability to keep himself entertained. The academy was silent, given that it was still early enough for people to have gone out for dinner. The paintings along the staircase looked down on him as he walked past them, even the ones without living subjects or eyes. His feet carried him downstairs, over worn steps and treaded carpets, all in a manner he knew too well without thinking about what he was doing.

And then, before his brain had even processed what his feet were doing, he was back in the music corridor with its compartments and posters for concerts and recitals. The door to Enjolras’ room at the end of the hallway was closed. Grantaire slipped through the glass door and snuck up to the room to peak through the small window. Enjolras sat at the grand piano, his head resting on the music stand. His eyes were closed and he looked tense, shoulders pulled up to his head, whilst his arms hung loosely at his sides. Grantaire swallowed heavily. The only light illuminating Enjolras’ face was the pale blue light of his mobile phone display in front of him. He seemed to have pulled up some sheet music but his overall posture suggested either resignation or tiredness. His posture did not fit the Enjolras Grantaire had met; the angry pianist and the late night concerts were nothing but a faint taste on his tongue, almost as if they had not happened. He almost contemplated entering the room to offer him a hug when a movement had him stop in his tracks.

Enjolras straightened himself up, lifted his hands and placed them on the keys. He seemed to focus even more than usual on what notes he needed to play, even before he actually hit one. Grantaire watched as he inhaled deeply, studying the phone display on the stand before pressing the first keys.

Grantaire had heard him play Schubert, Chopin, Beethoven, Schumann, Liszt, Tchaikovsky and Brahms. Enjolras undoubtedly had a soft spot for the Romantics, their manner, music and expression. It seemed to fit him, the whole idea of romantic forlornness and desperation seemed to bleed into his music, offering his emotions without a spoken word. Played by a near angelic figure, Grantaire had almost started to believe in the power of music. Listening to Enjolras had shown him what it meant to catch an emotion through music, an insight that came to him through the nightly listening more than years of playing multiple instruments and listening to his mother had allowed him to realise. On the contrary, she had been the one to point out that music, the popular classics that was, ensured he had food to eat and clothes to wear. Music had been a means to earn money, not something played for fun late at night to calm a lonely soul in need of company. He thought about how Marius had founded multiple chamber music groups that practised and played for fun, how he had agreed to practise with Enjolras. He still was not sure whether he would enjoy their duets, sometimes it seemed like a waste of time and, in Enjolras’ case, waste of talent. There was nothing Grantaire could offer him when they played, he doubted they were good enough to perform and Enjolras was better advised to play with other music students, people on his own level of skill, rather than him, the washed up remains of a promising inheritance. He was wasting his time with a halfbaked hobby-musician like Grantaire. Even, if they played together, the difference between them was obvious. Every time he looked at Enjolras, he saw everything he hated about himself so much clearer. The brilliancy and grace with which Enjolras held himself seemed too bright, too perfect for anyone to compete with. Almost like the sun, Enjolras shone with radiating heat and whoever got close enough could either feel the warmth he granted them or burn. Combeferre and Courfeyrac, both stars in their own right, were able to coexist in close proximity to him but everybody else was in danger to end like the unfortunate Icarus, tumbling to their demise. Grantaire was sure that his wings had started to melt when he had first heard Enjolras play. Now, that he knew what a kind, passionate human being was hidden behind the musician, combined with how composed he seemed, he was more intimidated by Enjolras than when he had only known his piano play. Something about him demanded respect and compelled anybody looking at him to follow his words. A dangerous gift, Grantaire thought, as his mind seemingly raced. Enjolras would be able to raise an army just by standing at its front and speaking of the world to come. He was sure that Enjolras knew it as well, the way he moved, spoke and argued made it seem likely. It probably was the only thing Grantaire would not gladly accept about him, too much could potentially go wrong if Enjolras ever used this gift in a way other than the idealistic, future-making way he used it for at the moment, judging by what Jehan, Bahorel, Joly and Bousset had told him about the debate society.

All in all, Enjolras intimidated him. And the way his slim fingers caressed the ivory keys was almost ghostly. He had played his fair share of Paganini when his mother had forced him to learn how to play the violin and he knew enough legends about the supposed pact the violinist had made with the devil. His soul for a never before seen talent. It seemed highly unlikely that Enjolras, out of all people, would sell his soul to be able to play the piano like he did but Grantaire was inclined to review almost every explanation for the way his play seemed to reach into the darkest corner of his soul and bring forth something he had deemed long forgotten, leaving it bare and vulnerable, for the world to see and hurt.

Was it therefore implausible to see Enjolras’ talent as something he could have easily acquired through a shady deal over a pile of burning herbs with a hooded figure in the back corner of a cemetery? The longer he thought about it, the more could he imagine Jehan don a cape to lure interested parties to the graveyard. They liked giving private readings at night, after all. In fact, Grantaire knew only one other person beside Jehan who spent time at the grave yard unironically, and he had not seen Montparnasse in years.

Enjolras probably went to graveyards, too. It would fit the repertoire he seemed to have gathered. Grantaire liked the Romantics, just about as much as Enjolras, apparently. He seemed to play nothing else, after all. And yes, Chopin’s soft piano compositions had helped him sleep a great deal better since he had first heard Enjolras play them. Between the different composers of the romantic period, Grantaire was willing to place a bet that he would play even more Chopin.

The first key Enjolras had hit snapped back up, sending a tone into the room. Hearing it knocked a breath out of his lungs. He had heard him play Schubert, Chopin, Beethoven, Schumann, Liszt, Tchaikovsky and Brahms.

He had not expected Bach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think makes Bach so special!


	12. Chapter Twelve

Bach’s _Praeludium No. 2 in C minor_ had comforted him through some of the darkest moments of his teenage years. It had been the one thing he played when nothing else had been able to comfort him. Its fast-paced rhythm, the scaling highs and lows of both melody and accompanying hand, and the piece’s overall tune had seemed both accusing and retreating to him. Its duality had kept him sane whenever his mother demanded _More, more, more, faster, sooner, right now_! It had never been easy to meet her standards, so he relied on things he knew and Bach had been coming to him as easy as painting. With the _Praeludium_ , it had been the steady rhythm of quavers, almost resembling a pulse that had helped calm him down. No matter how distraught and confused he was, how messy and unpleasant his thoughts had been, their steadiness had gotten him through it. He had almost forgotten about the effect the piece had had on ten year old Grantaire. Once again, Enjolras had, unknowingly, picked something that made his silent audience’s heart sing in the highest notes, had his stomach churn with memories long buried and managed to get him to smile through the pain, just like he had learned to do. It did occur to him that the small glass window in the door was ringing with the force of the music played, it seemed to vibrate in its frame. Enjolras played the _Praeludium_ with raw force, almost as if he was angry at the world for letting him down; he all but hammered onto the keys and made the piano give up its notes to him. His face mirrored what went into his playing, the mixture of anger and desperate sadness plain to see in his eyes.

Grantaire felt like an intruder. Clearly, Enjolras had not meant for anyone to see his moment of vulnerability. The realisation came with the tear that slipped over Enjolras’ cheekbone. His heart stuttered at the sight of Enjolras crying over the piano. A sob reached his ears and Grantaire wished himself at any place other than the cold hallway outside of Enjolras’ room, wished he was anything but the silent onlooker. He seemed distressed, bitterly fixating the phone display in front of him whilst his fingers maltreated the keys. Grantaire had to look away, his mind unable to come up with a solution that did not include wrapping his arms around Enjolras until he stopped crying in the solitude of his room.

The melody stopped suddenly, its last tone still echoing through the corridor. Grantaire looked up to find out why Enjolras had seized to play, only to see him look right back at him, eyes wide in shock. A part of him wanted to turn around and run away before Enjolras could do as much as get up and open the door but his feet decided to rebel against his flight instinct during that exact moment, leaving him to watch as Enjolras pushed himself off his stool, rounded the grand piano and stormed towards the door, an expression akin to distress contorting his usually soft features.

‘What are you doing here?’ Enjolras hair had slipped out of the tie, framing his face as he stared him down, ‘It’s too early!’

Grantaire wanted to say something, anything, to respond to what Enjolras had just said but the words did not make sense in his brain. He blinked at Enjolras, mouth gaping open, not entirely sure what he had heard come out of his mouth.

‘Too early?’ he repeated, a sad choice of words as they caused Enjolras’ eyebrows to knit together, ‘What do you mean?’

‘You never come by here before midnight and we didn’t have a rehearsal planned, that is what I mean,’ he pushed a strand of hair behind his ear, Grantaire’s look following his hand because his brain still had not processed a word of what they were talking about, ‘are you okay?’

‘You – am I okay?’ Grantaire shook his head, ‘Are you okay?’

His voice sounded too worried to pretend he had just stopped by, he realised. He cleared his throat and ruffled his hair, ‘You seemed a little distressed.’

Enjolras avoided his gaze as he mumbled something unintelligible before turning back into his room, switching the light off and grabbing his coat, ‘Do you have anything planned tonight?’

‘No, inspiration has avoided me,’ Grantaire sighed, ‘Why are you asking?’

‘I need to get out,’ Enjolras pulled him towards the staircase, ‘I know it’s bad when I play Bach. I don’t know why but something about his music calms me down when I can’t see a solution anywhere. Bach’s music can be so powerful, yet soft and comforting at the same time.’

Grantaire nodded and opened the door for them, ‘I used to listen to the _Praeludium_ you just played when I was really upset. I played it, too, sometimes.’

Enjolras gave him a small smile, slipping one arm into his coat, ‘Do you need a coat?’

‘Blood runs hot enough.’

They passed by the notice board in the main hall, a new colourful piece of paper had been put up. Enjolras tugged him closer to study it with a wrinkled forehead.

‘Have you seen this? It’s a call for artworks to be displayed in the hallways and staircases before Christmas, you should give them something to put up.’

‘No, I’d rather not,’ Grantaire winced at the thought and stepped back from the board, Enjolras followed a moment later, ‘I’ve had my fair share of embarrassing pictures on these walls, I don’t need that again. Others get their chance as well and I don’t get hounded about inspiration and technique, I like it better that way.’

Enjolras looked at him from the side but did not say another word until they were out on the street, walking towards one of the student bars close to the academy. It was only when the _Corinthe_ came into view that he cleared his throat, something clearly on his mind.

‘Are you going to drink something tonight? I could do with a drink.’

Grantaire was not entirely sure whether he meant it or was winding him up. Bahorel might have been joking about him toeing the line to being a functioning alcoholic but there was a grain of truth in it he did not want to think about.

‘I shouldn’t. I’ll keep you company though, if you want to,’ he shuffled down the road, fists shoved into his pockets, ‘haven’t been to the _Corinthe_ in ages. Are you going there regularly?’

Enjolras shook his head, ‘A friend of mine works there some evenings, we might get a discount, if he’s in. It’s not often that I go to have a drink, though. Alcohol does not really agree with me.’

‘Well then, let’s see what the pub looks like now. Last time I checked, it was a dark, dingy hole where gangs met and junkies got their fix.’

Enjolras nodded, ‘That was before the new owner took over. The gangs have been taken care of, it was renovated and refurbished and the new owner is proud and confident.’

He pushed the door open and Grantaire stepped through it, not entirely willing to believe what he was saying. The _Corinthe_ had been notorious amongst the late night drinkers, the desperate souls looking for something to satisfy their needs and the lost ones that were looking for trouble. Grantaire expected the sticky, mismatched tables, old, stained wallpaper and unmotivated bartender that had thrown him out for pointing out the drugs being sold in the hallway leading to the toilets.

Instead, he was bathed in warm light coming from a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The half-timbered walls had been whitened, the floor boards polished and the tablecloths were shining white. Grantaire felt his mouth fall open as Enjolras pulled him further into the room. There were real, framed pictures and posters on the wall, the glasses behind the bar were sparkly clean and the bottles on the rack had actual wine in them. Even the customers had changed; instead of hollow cheeks, sunken eyes and dark shadows, Grantaire saw elderly couples, groups of students and families. A beautiful woman manned the bar, her dark hair the only unruly thing to be seen in the whole wide room. Her eyes were watching over every movement at the tables, seemingly giving the waiters orders without words.

‘That’s Musichetta,’ Enjolras grinned, once he noticed Grantaire’s stare, ‘she owns the _Corinthe_ now. The grand reopening was three months ago.’

‘How did you get involved?’ Grantaire tried to focus on Enjolras instead of the restaurant that had taken over where blind mirrors and dirty corners had been common.

Enjolras’ grin was blinding as he waved at Musichetta, ‘I played at the opening. Chetta asked me to come back every weekend. I have played here every Saturday since.’

‘Enjolras, you’re a day early,’ Musichetta had stepped out from behind the counter and came towards them with her hands stemmed on her hips.

‘I know, Chetta,’ Enjolras winked at her, ‘today I’m here to have a drink like a lowly peasant, crawling through your door.’

‘You are a lot, Enjolras, but never a peasant,’ Musichetta nodded at Grantaire, ‘and you are another academy student come here for the discount I give this scoundrel?’

‘Never, ma’am,’ Grantaire said hastily before taking a closer look at her, ‘Fuck, you are young!’

Enjolras dissolved in giggles next to him whilst Grantaire cooked under Musichetta’s stern gaze, blood rushing to his head. The embarrassment nailed him to the spot, even as her face lit up with a wide grin and Enjolras grabbed his hand again.

‘I’ll always have a table for you, Enjolras, I promised you as much,’ she led them into the backroom, a place Grantaire remembered to be the setting for illegal gambling and Poker nights. Now the place was lit up by candles and resembled a nineteenth century palace, with heavy dark red curtains shielding customers from curious views, ‘enjoy your evening, I’ll send Feuilly round.’

‘Feuilly?’ Grantaire asked as they sat down. Enjolras grinned like a Cheshire cat again.

‘I told you a friend of mine works here sometimes.’

‘Yes, but Feuilly? He’s a legend around the academy, especially art students – and you’re friends with him?’

‘He certainly is friends with me. Although, if he should bring somebody here just to see them flustered out of their good senses ever again, I will have Musichetta seat him with everybody else in the front,’ Grantaire’s head snapped up to meet the disgruntled look on a young man in the waiter’s uniforms he had seen other busy people wear in the front room of the restaurant.

He had seen him around the academy a few times before, Feuilly was a scholar who produced delicate paintings using a most uncommon canvas: silk fans. His work looked vibrant and colourful, bursting with the liveliness of the subjects whilst carrying the elegant shimmer of the silk. The difficulties of silkpainting were immense, Grantaire knew as much. No wonder also, that every art student and professor around the academy spoke highly of Feuilly’s innovation and creativeness and he remained the student who had been exhibited the most around the art department.

‘It’s an honour to meet you,’ Grantaire stuck his arm out, ‘I loved _A Picnic In the Park_.’

‘Thank you,’ Feuilly handed him his menu, ‘Enjolras, I mean it! Stop it, this one has deserved better! You don’t have many polite friends.’

‘I have Combeferre!’

‘The fact that you are not even trying to include Courfeyrac is telling me everything I need to know,’ Feuilly smacked Enjolras lightly over the head with the second menu, ‘I’ll be back with your drinks.’

‘But we didn’t order anything,’ Grantaire said as Feuilly walked away.

‘Don’t worry, Musichetta assumes the right drink for you,’ Enjolras smiled, ‘she’s a genius with tastes and combinations.’

When Feuilly returned, he brought a wonderfully mellow white wine for them. Enjolras seemed to like it, even though Grantaire was careful not to drink too much. Wine would force him to his knees anytime.

‘Have fun tonight, and if you’re ever fed up with him, just come by my studio. We should collaborate some time, I’ve seen the paintings of yours Lafayette put up.’

‘Thank you, I would love to do that,’ Grantaire could not hide the blush brushing over his cheeks.

Feuilly left them to their drinks and the search for a conversation topic. Enjolras fumbled with the artistically folded napkin, something Grantaire was quick to describe to the departed waiter and his rebuke.

‘Why were you playing Bach earlier?’

‘I had a bad day.’

‘Tell me about it?’

‘What is it to you?’

Grantaire recoiled, lifting his hands in defence, ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to offend you. I’ll drop it, we can talk about anything you want to.’

‘No,’ Enjolras wrinkled his forehead, ‘no, that was rude of me. I always play Bach when I feel down or wronged, simply when my brain cannot escape the seemingly overpowering disasters of the world.’

‘Why, the revolutionary weary of his revolutions?’ Grantaire leaned back, bounding back into teasing Enjolras immediately, ‘How does Bach help you with it? I used to listen to his music when I didn’t want to talk to people.’

Enjolras cocked his head and looked at him, ‘You listen to Bach regularly, then?’

‘As a kid,’ Grantaire nodded, carefully sipping his wine, ‘the power behind his melodies calmed me down whenever I felt lost to the world.’

Enjolras’ clear gaze remained trained on him. Grantaire felt sweat break out on his forehead. A thought drilled itself into his conscience, reminding him that he was not made for evenings out, restaurants or educated conversation. He felt like the imposter revealed, his interaction with Enjolras nothing but a dream that should end before long, leaving him nursing a hangover in his studio, having lost a friend because of his unsuitability. It suffocated him, and the part of his brain that was still trying to fight against the paralysing feeling of crippling self-doubt reminded him that he could not allow himself the luxury of sliding into the pathetic calmness he felt whenever he retreated from any social interaction. He was not cut out for these events, second-guessing every word that came over his lips and determined to see his own failure before there could be as much as a chance to prove himself. His inability to carry a conversation had been pointed out to him often enough for him to stay away from them and retreat before he could put his foot in his mouth.

‘Your mother’s music course for children,’ Enjolras cautious voice made him look up, ‘I got it for Christmas and I read it in a few days. There was a CD that went with the book and it had all the recordings to the pieces mentioned. The _Praeludium No. 2 in C minor_ was part of that and I fell in love with it instantly. For some time, my father had to put on the CD before I would go to bed. He also got me the sheet music for so many of the pieces featured. When I first heard her play, I felt like I had found the secret to celebrating Christmas and my birthday on the same day. Your mother managed to show me how music could carry emotions, what passion meant and how people would be connected and understood through music. I still have my copy of _Musical Crash Course_ , I wanted her to sign it but every time Dad took me to a concert, I forgot it at home.’

Their food arrived, Enjolras thanked Feuilly and pitched into it. Whilst he dug in like a famished animal, Grantaire felt nauseous. His mind kept him on his toes, and thinking about the rapid change the night had brought hurt. He tried to remember when he had last been at ease but it seemed clouded by a throbbing in the back of his head. Bahorel, he remembered, boxing. He remembered Enjolras, playing sad pieces but looking content, not masked and distressed, as if Grantaire had not seen him cry in his music room earlier. Something had upset him and Grantaire was unable to find words to voice everything that went on in his head, sat staring at his food.

‘Are you alright?’ Enjolras tried to get his attention by waving a little, ‘You’re not eating.’

Grantaire shook his head in an attempt to get rid of the thoughts that wanted to be voiced but would lead to something worse than nausea. If he voiced as much as one of the thoughts bustling about in his head, Enjolras would think him a lunatic and stop talking to him, he was sure of that.

‘Grantaire, you look worried,’ Enjolras put his knife and fork down, ‘Is it something I said? Did I do something wrong? I know we might not always be on the same page and I can go like a bull at a gate, people just don’t tell me when it happens and I just wonder where they go – if I pressured you to come, if you had plans tonight and I forced you –‘

‘You didn’t force me to do anything, I came here because I did have no plans at all,’ Grantaire was not sure whether the words had actually left his lips but the sudden change in Enjolras’ face was him evidence enough, ‘Initially, I just wandered in the music corridor because I hoped to hear you play. It helps me sort my thoughts, sometimes.’

Enjolras seemed to listen to him and Grantaire, finding that his tongue seemed to have been loosened by the wine, allowed himself to continue for a little, ‘I find it easier to draw and work with music playing in the background and for the past few weeks it has been a playlist made up from all the pieces I heard you play. Now, I know what that sounds like but I actually got to finish a painting! It’s all down to hearing you play, even though I could never assume to reach a level on which I would feel comfortable around you. You are like the fucking sun, I really hope someone told you that before! That rehearsal we had? Did you ever think about that it was the first time we met during the day, in the sunlight? Apollo reincarnated, I say!’

He broke off, biting his tongue before more could slip out. Enjolras stared at him in biding disbelief, a crease between his brows. His hand on the table twitched and he leaned forward, light eyes pinning Grantaire to his chair.

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Grantaire,’ his voice sounded collected and controlled but Grantaire could sense the tension underneath. Just as he realised that something was off, Enjolras leaned back again, removing himself from his personal space, ‘I’m sorry you are so uncomfortable around me. If I had known, I would have made sure not overstep and keep to my boundaries. You needn’t mock me for the enthusiasm I try to show for the cause I pursue.’

‘I did not intend to mock you,’ Grantaire rubbed his temples, ‘I was merely saying –‘

‘I did hear you,’ Enjolras seemed impatient enough to start bouncing his leg, Grantaire opted to remain silent.

They ate but the conversation remained stale. Feuilly came by their table again, took one look at them and smacked Enjolras lightly up the head again.

‘I told you to be nice, bloody idiot,’ he turned to face Grantaire, ‘do forgive him, he runs off at the mouth without a filter. He’ll handbag anyone who dares arguing against him but it tends to make conversing with him difficult.’

Enjolras went bright red as Feuilly spoke, he seemed close to exploding. Grantaire shook his head, hands buried in his lap.

‘It wasn’t him. I said something stupid. We don’t seem to be able to talk without disagreeing or arguing about something eventually. It’s sad, isn’t it,’ his wine glass was of more interest to him, he examined it closely, ‘knowing that so much is keeping me from behaving like a decent person? As it is, I can only wish and imagine to be worthy of a person like him.’

Feuilly patted his back and took their used plates. Grantaire looked at Enjolras, gathering all his courage and finished the thought, ‘Worthy of being your friend.’

Enjolras’ look grew questioning as he looked up and met Grantaire’s eyes, ‘What?’

‘I know it is presumptuous of me but I have found your company to be the best thing that happened to me in quite some time,’ Grantaire lowered his gaze and focused on his hands that he had cramped around the hem of the table cloth, avoiding even looking at Enjolras, not prepared to be confronted with the disgust and rejection on his face.

‘You think you are not – you think we are not friends? Grantaire, I must insist you look at me right now!’ Enjolras forcefully set down the glass he had held, ‘We are friends, R! You are allowed to come into my music room whenever you like, we are trying out duets, whatever gave you the impression that we were not?’

‘We are?’ Grantaire felt his feet slip from where he had perched them against the table leg, his knee bumped against the top and made their glasses clink.

‘Yes, we are,’ Enjolras rolled his eyes, ‘God, Grantaire, do you have any self-confidence?’

‘I don’t, actually,’ Grantaire grinned carefully, ‘you will have to pinch and remind me every day.’

He was almost ready to swear that a mischievous grin tugged on the corners of Enjolras’ mouth. Feuilly came back and handed them the dessert menu, a pleased smile on his lips, ‘So you did talk a little more?’

‘Thank you,’ Enjolras exchanged a quick glance with his friend, ‘did Chetta say anything about next week?’

‘Oh next week is a week off for you,’ Musichetta appeared next to the table, ‘we have this band coming in, they are from around here and one of my waiters knows them and got me an exclusive acoustic concert in here. It is good publicity for the restaurant.’

‘Exciting and probably the best publicity!’ Enjolras nodded and smiled at her, ‘What band are we talking about?’

‘Only the most important group that had its beginnings here and went on to become stars! They left the city as soon as they could, no one knows what they did before the band and they prove to be a colourful array every time they are on the radio or the TV! You must come and have a look, Enjolras, and bring your new friend all the same, we’ll have a space for you,’ Musichetta produced a flyer in green, pale brown and red and fanned herself with it, ‘Well, yes, we managed to get the only group that got out of this neighbourhood: _Patron-Minette_!’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think of it.  
> I will post something holiday themed over the next days. Happy holidays!


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Grantaire did not feel like dessert. He browsed the menu Musichetta had left for them but the mere thought of sugary sweets made him feel sick to his stomach. Enjolras looked little more inclined to order something than him, there was a deep crease between his eyes and his hands gripped the menu tight enough to wrinkle it. Grantaire could think of only one reason why their conversation had died down again.

‘Enjolras?’

‘Mhm?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘What are you apologising for?’ Enjolras looked up and shook his head, ‘You have not crossed me.’

‘I must have, I cannot explain your sudden gloominess in any other way, and I am sorry.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘I missed another of your meetings, didn’t I? Your anger towards me must thus derive from my absence despite your invitation and you remembering it now as you thought of how I disappointed you.’

‘Grantaire –‘

‘You are right to do so, you know, I told you that night; I am a disappointment and no good friend, a functioning alcoholic if anything and in no right sense despite being sceptical of anything that comes in my way. There is no passion left in me to be brought forward for any cause.’

‘Grantaire,’ Enjolras set his menu down, ‘Grantaire – I had no friends left to support me, if I cut ties with everybody who missed a meeting. Courf and Combeferre have missed meetings in favour of date nights. Feuilly works late shifts here. Marius and Cosette spend some evenings a week at her father’s place because he makes a point in feeding them. Marius can’t cook for shit and Cosette forgets to eat. You see, R? I am not angry with you for any reason you can think up. Actually, I knew what I was getting into when I invited you along.’

It seemed too easy. Grantaire wanted to tell him how unlikely it seemed that he would willingly agree to such an undertaking. He seemed too invested in whatever course he followed to forgive absence that easily.

‘Listen, Grantaire, I don’t think we are in the mood for dessert. Should we call it a night and walk back to the academy? I need to get something out of my system and I know just the piece for it.’

‘As long as it isn’t Bach,’ Grantaire nodded, ‘I bawl like a baby when I hear his music.’

‘I’ll be sure to use that information against you some time,’ Enjolras got up and waved Feuilly, ‘the bill is going to be reckoned up with my payslip for next week.’

‘You’re kidding, right?’ Grantaire looked back to the table they had just left behind, ‘How much do I owe you?’

‘There is no way I’m letting you pay for tonight,’ Enjolras pocketed his phone and made his way towards Musichetta who stood behind the bar.

Grantaire followed him a moment later, if only just to compliment her and tell her that all of his friends would get to hear about the reformed _Corinthe_. Musichetta smiled when he told her whilst Enjolras rolled his eyes.

‘Can I get you to give him back half of whatever you’re going to subtract from his payment? He wouldn’t let me pay my share and I cannot accept that,’ he got his wallet out.

‘And would he not have a reason for treating you like that?’ Musichetta lifted an eyebrow.

‘Maybe because he thinks I’m a starving artist, but I will not have him sacrifice his pay check,’ Grantaire shoved a note into her hands, ‘keep the rest but pay him back, for god’s sake!’

Enjolras stood outside, reading the headlines of the newspapers through the window of the shop next to the _Corinthe_. His face showed the displeasure Grantaire had almost gotten used to in the short time.

‘Look at that, the world goes to shit and what is on the front page? The announcement that _Patron-Minette_ will play in a sold out venue. As if anyone gave as much as a single fuck about them or what their concerts are supposed to be like!’

Grantaire huffed out a breath and stuffed his fists into his pockets, ‘So what have you got against the band that makes your ears rot off as soon as you actually start listening to their music?’

Enjolras tore his gaze away from the headlines, ‘You don’t like them either, I assume?’

Grantaire shrugged, ‘Bad memories. What have they done to get you all railed up like this? Seems like there is bad blood as well?’

‘I have never bothered to waste time listening to their music. Some of my friends listen to it, I think Courf has all their albums and listens to them from time to time; I leave and practise for a few hours, estimating the amount of time he will spend listening to their weird screams and whiny texts. It will take him about three hours to get everything out of his system but it will calm him down for a few weeks. That doesn’t mean I approve of his taste in music, especially not when the lead singer of these upstart-wannabes isn’t shutting up about what he deems important information online. I have read more announcements about the senselessness of fine arts and the academy in our modern time than actual promotional posts for his own band! Have you ever read through his texts and realised that he is questioning everything we ever posted on our _Les Amis_ -blog? As if we were click baiting without being involved, as if our fight for equality and human rights was nothing as long as we are still studying – just because he never set a foot into an academy and dropped his piano lessons as soon as humanly possible,’ Enjolras’ voice grew louder and red patches appeared on his cheeks as his eyes shone with anger, ‘But now he thinks he can taunt me on social media –‘

‘I’m sorry,’ Grantaire interrupted, fists balled together tightly in his pockets, ‘what are we talking about?’

‘The arrogant, pretentious, book avoiding worm that poses as the lead singer of Patron-Minette, Montparnasse himself.’

‘You know Montparnasse?’

‘We had the doubtful pleasure to have the same piano teacher when we were starting to play. Montparnasse went off to start a rock band and I am trying to get my head around why I should feel humiliated about attending the academy, as he points out to me every now and then.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Because he never set foot in a school after half-completing Year Ten, allowing him to play every small, filthy pubs and clubs with his school band until they finally found a technician who managed to make them sound a little better which landed them a whole contract. He is probably still one of the most pretentious musicians I know. He makes money with emo rock nowadays but he started out with classical piano, no matter what he wants his fans to believe. I just can’t help feeling sick whenever I see the posters or anything related to the whole band. It reminds me of how he would duet with me until he was discovered after one of our recitals. We played four-handed, the scout asked him whether he was interested in a group he was managing and whether I would be interested, too. I later found out that Montparnasse told him I wasn’t any good anyway and the only thing I would ever do was re-enacting his playing. He got promoted, I practised for hours every day and finally got admitted into the academy whilst he was already playing venues and flaunting his manipulations. He would still sell people to the highest bidder as soon as an opportunity arises, I bet.’

‘Sounds like him,’ Grantaire sniffed and wiped his nose.

‘Wait – you know him as well?’ Enjolras stumbled in the attempt to catch up with him, ‘how do you know Montparnasse?’

‘His mother was friends with mine,’ Grantaire winced, ‘before the accident, remember that? His parents died in this car accident and he supposedly wrote a whole album about it. Funny thing though, the lyrics were exactly like the poems a girl in our class wrote in Year Ten. Before that, he was over at our house almost every day because my mother loved having him around. I only knew he played the piano better than me, we tried playing together a few times but it never really happened. I was never even close to become good enough to be compared to him, I knew that. My mother might not have liked it but in the end, Montparnasse was the charmer. I could not live up to the expectations, not with him there. When he went off to make music with that band, I was relieved.’

Enjolras cleared his throat at the next turn they took, looking at something far off beyond the street, ‘Do we have a nemesis in common?’

Grantaire smirked into the darkness, ‘Seems like it. I for one am going to ignore Patron-Minette as much as I can, allowing myself maybe one evening of indulgence when the actual concert takes place. I need to be hungover or still drunk when the newspapers write their reviews the next morning.’

Enjolras shook his head, ‘I’ll probably be at home, waiting for Courf and Ferre; I should be very surprised if they were not there to indulge Courf’s weird music taste. They know about the whole thing but disliking Montparnasse is not automatically linked to disliking Patron-Minette and their music.’

‘Are you okay with it?’

‘Yes, I suppose. They will not tell me anything about the concert and we will move on with our lives. I have more important things to worry about than my music school rival,’ he pulled his phone out of the pocket, ‘thank you, though. You got me out of a shitty day. Do you want to come up to my music room, I have a few other things to play and I would not want to leave you with Montparnasse on your mind, after all you’ve told me.’

‘Careful, Apollo, you might get accused of caring.’

‘Don’t call me that,’ Enjolras opened the door for Grantaire, ‘and I do care. Have you got your notebook with you?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘It would feel weird, if you just stared at me. That armchair in my room is very comfy, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, it is. Good thing I seem to have developed a soft spot for that chair,’ Grantaire threw Enjolras a look over his shoulder, ‘may I get some booze from the studio?’

‘One evening?’ Enjolras got his keys out of his pocket, ‘I need to get some sheet music from the library.’

‘What, you don’t have every single piece of music on your shelf?’

Enjolras shoved him in response, coaxing a hoarse laugh out of Grantaire, ‘Go settle in my room, will you?’

‘What, you don’t lock your room?’ Grantaire grinned, ‘I feel like there should be a comment about music students not locking their doors.’

‘Yes, I had that coming, I guess.’

They parted ways at the foot of the stairs, Grantaire climbed up the stairs towards the music corridor and Enjolras slipped into the library on the ground floor. The shelves directly next to the entrance there were lined with sheet music and folios on art history and every student had access to it at all times to ensure perfect conditions for their studies. It made life easier.

Grantaire found Enjolras’ door unlocked, just as they had left it. He switched the light back on and fumbled his notebook out of his pocket before sitting down in the armchair and toeing his shoes off. It seemed comfier to pull his legs up and rest the small book on his knees. His usual pencil was sitting behind his ear and waited to be taken up and put to paper. He tried to think of something to draw, an inspiration to start with. His brain turned on him the moment he connected the tip of his pencil to the page, going completely blank and empty. It was just about starting to frustrate him, when the door opened and Enjolras stepped through the frame.

‘Well, you certainly look comfortable. Any ideas yet?’

‘No, waiting for you to play!’

Enjolras threw him another dirty look but set down a book on the music stand. He sat down on the stool, feet in place on the pedals, rolled his shoulders and opened the book, turning a few pages. Once he settled on a piece, he placed his hands on the keys. He seemed to hold his breath for a moment, a calm before the storm that brew in the sharp edge of his eyebrows and clung to the edges of his jaw.

Grantaire’s eyes slipped shut for a moment with the first notes floating through the room. Rachmaninoff’s _Prélude in C sharp minor_ , his brain filled in, part of his mother’s _Romantic Russians_ programme, even though he had never been able to see the romance in this piece. Powerful, dark tones, reverberating through his head. The first loud chords were succeeded by looming but softer notes, the melody moving along a clear pattern Enjolras drew as his fingers hit the keys. Even though every chord was connected and led straight into another or even the accompanying part, Grantaire felt them singled out and alone, every note an accusation against something he could not grasp as it was. Grantaire allowed himself to get lost in the first rapid scale it grew into as the force with which Enjolras hit the keys became apparent in the way his arms seemed to bounce off the keyboard. Grantaire felt the hairs on his arms stand on end when the melody ascended into higher octaves, angry staccatos hammering against his ear drums.

His pencil moved on its own accord, creating a mess of lines and figures, stretching them over the whole double page and connecting the shapes and shadows with more fierce strokes. It imagined the outlines of a person cowering in one corner, dropping their head and hiding their face in the crook of their arm. He conjured up shadows, towering over them, each deformed and monstrous in their size, with white spots where teeth and eyes would have been, bleak, empty holes staring down at them in their absence. In a flight of fancy, he gave the figure on the ground his curls and created something resembling a complicated hair do on one of the monsters, hinting at something more than just a random monster. It turned into everything he resented and his fingers seemed to have decided to give every monster something to identify it by. One wore an over-the-top top hat that would have fit a monster in a children’s book, another’s teeth were dropping saliva, one of the bigger ones seemed to be wearing a monocle and a waistcoat woven of darkness. But the biggest monster, standing over him with the sharpest teeth, bore no resemblance to anything human, made up entirely of blurred lines and dark smoke.

The melody accompanying his drawing changed into Chopin’s _Etude No. 12 in C minor_ , “ _Revolutionary_ ”. A quick, scaling sequence surged against him, filling he space between him and the walls. The left hand flew over the keyboard, coaxing complicated combinations out of the mighty instrument as the melody fought to be heard, contributing little more than chords before attempting to steal the left’s thunder in a succession of notes that were reprimanded immediately, the hand associated with melody and overpowering presence expelled from its usual position by the righteous anger displayed in the left hand’s demands to lead for once. The right hand settled on complimenting and accentuating the left’s breakneck capers, piping up like a warning not to trip and fall over the unlikely leader’s ambitions now and then, fortes and pianos taking turns. A jubilant quip of the right hand was ended immediately as the left surged up to meet it. Thundering demisemiquavers called to arms as the right’s accompaniment turned softer and more serious. It seemed to mourn the loss of energy the left took on as the end neared. Both hands eventually reunited in a strong accent on chords.

Another page, another sketch. The monsters were still there, melting into the shadow of the room the figure now crouched in but they were merely blobs with hollow eyes and sharp fangs. Nothing indicated the presence of personality or humanity beside the shape of heads on the dark heaps that were silhouetted against the dark background and the shadows looming in the corners of the room and the harsh, powerful lines that made up the surroundings, a pit of loneliness and despair. It enveloped the cowering figure in one corner of his notebook like a thick blanket, tight enough to keep out light and comfort, tight enough to leave only the monsters that slipped through the seams. They crowded in on him, suffocated him, and extinguished the last white spots he had left until all that was left were the watching eyes and saliva dripping fangs.

‘Hey R, are you alright? You look a little concerned.’

Grantaire flinched. He had forgotten about where he was, where the music came from and even that Enjolras was in the same room as him. The reflexive jerk almost made him slam his notebook shut. He looked up and met Enjolras’ gaze, his friend had stopped playing and turned on the stool towards him. His serious face mirrored a part of the shock Grantaire had felt surging through him. There was nothing he could do, almost frozen he watched as Enjolras got up and crossed the room with just a few steps to come to a halt next to him.

‘Sorry, R, I felt like you might have been upset by something.’

Grantaire finally managed to shake his head, ‘I’m alright, don’t stop on my account. Just the usual dark thoughts.’

He could sense Enjolras craning his neck to glance at what he had drawn, followed by a sharp intake of breath. Grantaire cleared his throat and nodded towards his notebook, still perched on his knee.

‘Sometimes,’ he mumbled, putting another pencil stroke to the paper, ‘don’t worry, I’ve gotten used to it. Painting it makes it better, I can put it behind me.’

Grantaire looked up at him and met the inquiring glance Enjolras cast at him. Something liquid shimmered in his eyes, making them seem lighter than ever but nothing told him what it was that had triggered the reaction. He looked out of the ordinary. He cleared his throat again and set his notebook aside.

‘I wear my heart on my tongue. I’ve made a point of never hiding that. You might control your emotions beyond the determination for justice that drives you but I cannot simply do that. I am destined to sit and wallow in the pain of my existence whilst others have the power and energy to do what is right, challenge the system –  and fail in changing it.’

The tinge of empathy – Grantaire just managed to decipher the emotion in his eyes – disappeared from his expression and made way for something more likely to be annoyance. The process of the change in emotion on his chiseled face looked similar to marble melting and taking another shape. It seemed to harden his face again, sculpted to perfection. His eyes, however, were kinder.

‘I’m sorry you think that of me and the cause. I’m sorry you feel anxious,’ Enjolras pointed at the sketch again, ‘that looks threating…’

Grantaire looked up and was met by molten marble again as Enjolras wrinkled his forehead and shook his head before clearing his throat and ruffling his hair with the shaking hand of a nervous man, ‘Would you – would you like a hug?’

Grantaire felt his jaw drop. He could not stop staring up at the serious face above him, Enjolras seemed serious about the offer and a rather big part of his mind did not want to believe it. The smaller, more accepting part told him to nod, get up and prepare mentally for something that he would probably never again experience, made awkward by his posture and Enjolras gangly limbs. All of a sudden, everything about his own unkempt appearance seemed to move to the foreground, he thought about not having brushed his hair, the soft, baggy jumper he wore and the paint splatters on his shoes that were stuck to the fabric and would not wash out. He imagined himself next to Enjolras, or even in a hug, coming short in almost every aspect, the walking disappointment. Without doubt, Enjolras would regret the offer as soon as he did as much as indicate taking him up on it.

But then again, he seemed to underestimate Enjolras who carefully closed his notebook, put it on the grand piano and took Grantaire’s hand, ‘You look like you need one. This evening must have been a lot for you to process in a very short time.’

He pulled him to his feet, putting more force into the grip around Grantaire’s hand to make sure he did not drop back into the armchair. Once he had him upright, his arms were ready to envelope him and pull him into an embrace.

‘R, I would like you to try and relax a little,’ Enjolras’ voice was too close to his ears, ‘this is a hug, not the stocks.’

Grantaire felt the warmth of a quick breath ghost over his neck as Enjolras huffed out a laugh. He seemed pleased with his own joke.

‘You are so funny tonight,’ he deadpanned, ‘I can barely contain my laughter.’

‘Did the trick though, didn’t it?’

It had worked, Grantaire had to admit that. He felt himself ease into Enjolras’ touch and allowed himself to be comforted by the arms around his shoulders and the head resting on his shoulder. It took him a moment to feel comfortable to breathe but once he did he was not sure he would be able to stop smelling Enjolras cologne; a subtle, fresh scent filled his nose and made him all but cry with joy. Enjolras’ cologne reminded him of a soft, warm sea breeze caressing his skin. He felt his mouth twist into a cautious smile. It seemed like he had pictured the right setting for his painting after all.

The hug went on but neither of them pulled back. Grantaire felt the tension bleed out of his sore muscles and Enjolras’ arms tighten in response to his body going pliant in his embrace. It was less than a hug and more of a cuddle session and Grantaire did not feel like he did not deserve it, for once. He cherished every second of it, soaking up the warmth of his embrace, storing it away neatly for the next attack or episode that was bound to occur.

And then, the door opened, ‘Enjolras! Go to bed, you useless human being!’

Courfeyrac stormed into the room, arms akimbo and face contorted in all seriousness. He stopped dead in his tracks a moment later, causing his boyfriend to bump into him as he followed him. Combeferre exhaled an ‘Oh’ when he saw Enjolras and Grantaire stood between the grand piano and the armchair.

Grantaire felt the blood rush into his cheeks, he felt hot, and nausea surged through his guts, leaving him breathless for a moment. His first reflex was to step back and break the hug, to get away from Enjolras and squeeze past them, run up the stairs and lock himself into his room.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude,’ Courfeyrac actually backed up, lifting his hands up, ‘you seem busy.’

‘Shut up, Courf,’ Grantaire looked up, Enjolras’ throat displayed a few pink spots but he seemed calm otherwise, ‘R needed a hug!’

‘Sure he did,’ Courfeyrac, obvious over walking in on them hugging already, flopped down onto the piano stool, Combeferre stepping behind him to snake his arms around his shoulders. Courfeyrac immediately leaned back with an air of intimacy that made Grantaire feel at ease.

‘What is the reason for this then?’ Combeferre nodded towards them, ‘What is the hug for?’

Grantaire felt Enjolras’ arms stroke over his back, smothering the tension rising along his spine before it could make him uncomfortable, ‘A long day, some upsetting news and some Bach earlier tonight.’

‘Wait, you were playing Bach?’ Courfeyrac perked up, ‘What news were it, then?’

Enjolras cleared his throat, ‘ _Patron-Minette_ are coming back – and they are playing at the _Corinthe_. Including Montparnasse.’

Combeferre frowned, shook his head and started to play with one of Courfeyrac’s curls before giving Enjolras a look that made him shiver, Grantaire felt it through the embrace. He tightened his arms around him, trying to give back the comfort Enjolras had given him.

‘So it was less about R having a bad day and more like you needing that hug?’ Combeferre twisted his face into a tight smile, ‘What is he even doing back here? And playing in the _Corinthe_? I get they want to play where it all began but the hellhole of a pub it used to be is no longer there, how did Musichetta get roped up into this?’

‘I can only guess,’ Enjolras lifted his head off Grantaire’s shoulder and stepped back, softly loosening their hug, ‘they will be there next week, giving a special concert before playing in a bigger venue. Double the money, I guess.’

‘I might be going,’ Courfeyrac got up and patted Enjolras’ shoulder, ‘you know I like their music only; I can still dislike Montparnasse for the stunt he pulled on you and listen to them.’

Enjolras nodded sharply, his face not giving away what he was thinking. Grantaire decided to change the topic and distract Courfeyrac at the same time. He pulled his jumper sleeves back down over his hands.

‘You should ask Jehan to come, they have all _Patron-Minette_ albums at home. They might be interested in joining you next week, if you are going.’

‘Thanks, R,’ Courfeyrac beamed at him, ‘I’ll make sure to ask them. Are you coming back upstairs, Ferre?’

Combeferre nodded, slightly distracted by his boyfriend waving at him from the door, ‘Don’t stay up for too long. Both of you!’

‘Yes, dad,’ Enjolras grinned and waved after them, ‘they’ll get busy anyway, not like they are going to hear me come in later. Actually, I should probably walk in with earplugs already in place.’

Grantaire bit back a laughter, ‘You and me both, mate. Joly and Bousset will certainly start celebrating early.’

‘Celebrating?’

‘It’s Joly’s birthday on Thursday but they get even cuddlier and more annoying during the days leading up to it. It’s disgusting, really.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we are, Patron-Minette! This is going to be fun.


	14. Chaper Fourteen

The entire gang had gathered in one corner of the _Corinthe_. Bousset had invited almost everybody they knew, including fellow students from the academy, Joly’s colleagues and some passing acquaintances. He sat next to his boyfriend at the head of the table, radiant with the joy it brought him to have organised such a pleasant gathering. Jehan and Bahorel had dared Courfeyrac and Combeferre to face off in a game of cards, Marius and Cosette were chatting with Joly who was in the process of unwrapping another book and Grantaire tried to keep an eye on Gavroche, whom Éponine had brought along after finishing her shift. She was busy talking to Feuilly and Enjolras, the topic seemingly connected to the council’s recent decision to turn the gender neutral toilets in the townhall into storage space.

They had started the day with waffles and ice cream in their kitchen, Grantaire had cooked since Bousset’s biggest achievement was known to have been burning water, even though they were yet to understand how it had happened. They had sung Happy Birthday for Joly who had appreciated the breakfast in bed he got. His leg had acted up again and every moment of rest made it easier for him to go out and enjoy himself for longer than usual.

Enjolras had introduced everybody to Musichetta who had hugged Joly tightly when they told her about his status as the birthday boy. She had brought them cakes and sweets on top of their orders, set them down in front of Joly and watched with a fond smile as he fed the first spoon to Bousset. Her response to this move was to bring another bowl of Tiramisu.

‘You should sit down for a moment,’ Enjolras motioned towards the empty chair next to him, ‘your restaurant will continue to function, even if you did.’

‘The only reason I am even contemplating doing that is that you guys are incredibly sweet and it is refreshing to see so little toxic masculinity in one place. Not one of your friends has hit on me tonight which makes for a welcome change.’

Musichetta pulled the chair next to where Bousset tried to return the favour of feeding Joly, only for every bite he handed him to fall off the fork as soon as he lifted it. She took over with a stern look.

‘So, your birthday and all your friends come up with is an evening in a restaurant? Why not a pub crawl to celebrate?’

Bousset grinned at her, ‘We like our calm evenings in front of the TV. Don’t get the wrong idea, we did go out and came up with the weirdest ideas, but nowadays we prefer not to end up in the ER.’

‘Bad luck and a stiff knee don’t mix very well with alcohol,’ Joly knocked his cane against his leg, ‘it is something we have accepted. More than that, we remember every single one of our dates.’

‘Oh you poor boys,’ Musichetta smiled softly, ‘come back here any time for a nice evening. I’ll save you a table.’

‘Careful, Chetta, you’ll end up saving the whole restaurant,’ Enjolras’ eyes sparkled with the gleam of a few glasses of wine, ‘you give away tables like they are flyers.’

‘Easy as pie, I’ll give them your table!’

‘Treason!’ Enjolras clamped his hand in his shirt, ‘How can you do this to me?’

‘You lack about three good traits that would make you as good and pleasant a person as they are,’ Musichetta nodded at him, ‘you have abandoned your conversation completely, and there is no way you have suddenly stopped to think about revolution.’

‘He never does,’ Grantaire tore his attention away from his bowl of toffee pudding, ‘he breathes it.’

‘How would you know?’

‘Last Friday, you were playing Chopin’s _Revolutionary_ ,’ Grantaire tried smiling at Enjolras and to his surprise, he smiled back.

‘Right, I forgot about that. Have you brought the sketches of that night onto canvas already?’

‘No, I didn’t have the time for leisure,’ Grantaire stretched back across the rest of his chair.

He had only drunk one glass of wine, the last thing he wanted to do was upset Joy by getting drunk beyond his senses on his birthday. It had been a good day for him, seeing his best friend happy and comfortable with his boyfriend, surrounded by a whole group of friends who appreciated them. Something about the way they were huddled together in smaller groups made him believe in humanity again.

Gavroche leaned against his side, his eyes drooping shut every now and then, the only sign that he grew tired. Éponine and Cosette hugged over the table but no one seemed to have any idea what they had been talking about. Next to them, Marius and Courfeyrac got into a heated argument about the best publishing houses in town. Bahorel had finally managed to pull Jehan into his lap, they were nestled against his shoulder and tangled their hand in their boyfriend’s hair. They looked completely at peace with each other and Grantaire enjoyed seeing them like that, Jehan needed Bahorel’s calming presence to wind down from time to time. Their head, full of ideas, words and pictures, never really rested, much like his own, needed him.

‘Chetta, we have visitors,’ one of the _Corinthe_ ’s waitresses came into the backroom, ‘they want to take a look at the venue. You should come and show them.’

Musichetta got up with a heavy sigh and patted Joly’s back, ‘Don’t run off, we need to talk a little more. I’ll be back in no time.’

Grantaire watched as she left the room. There seemed to be some kind of uproar in the front, he could hear raised voices and shrill screams.

‘Whatever is going on in there?’ Combeferre wrinkled his forehead and got up, ‘Should we check to make sure Musichetta is alright?’

He shot Enjolras a look who nodded sharply before getting up, ‘Ferre, Courf, Baz –‘

‘R, you coming?’ Bahorel set Jehan down, ‘Time to put all this boxing to use.’

‘You box?’ Enjolras stared at him with his mouth hanging slightly agape, ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

Grantaire felt his cheeks heat up, the look resting on him burned a hole through his shirt and found him behind the curtain of hair he had drawn shut over his eyes. They were smiling, shining brightly and encouraging as Grantaire pushed himself off his chair to join them. The answer he could have given him burned under his tongue and a part of him wanted to tell him.

The door opened before he got the chance. Musichetta came back, followed by four men dressed in dark, historic inspired clothes. A gust of wind blew through the open front door and extinguished the candles on the tables they had pushed together. Everybody looked up, taking in the sight that presented itself.

‘Shrouded in darkness and mystery, they enter,’ Jehan whispered quietly behind Grantaire and fumbled for Bahorel’s hand, ‘a sight that makes the gods tremble.’

‘How delightful to see you again, Prouvaire,’ a top hat was lifted, black hair slipped out from underneath it and a pale face was contorted into a grin, ‘and looking as good as ever. Don’t tell me this is the new boyfriend I have been told about!’

Montparnasse’s velvety voice made the hairs on Grantaire’s arms stand on edge. He had not heard him talk in years and every trace of the boy he used to be was gone. Instead, he presented himself in the same way he appeared on stage, dressed like a modern dandy with top hat, cravat, waistcoat, frock-coat and boots. His mother’s words came back to him, ‘ _A true Dorian Gray_!’ Grantaire had not known what she meant until he had read the book and agreed with her. He still was not sure whether their interpretations were the same when it came to Montparnasse.

He blinked the boiling panic away and tried to focus on his friends. Jehan tried to control their expression, they held on to Bahorel’s hand and Grantaire realised that he seemed angry enough to rip Montparnasse apart. Jehan did not tell many people how he knew Montparnasse but from the looks of it, Bahorel did and was not pleased to see him. Then, Enjolras, righteous anger burning in his eyes, pushed in front of them.

‘What are you playing at, Montparnasse?’ Enjolras crossed his arms over his chest and stepped around Bahorel’s chair.

Grantaire could pinpoint the moment Montparnasse recognised the voice snapping at him, ‘Enjolras, is that you? How are you doing? Any concerts any time soon, I would love to hear you play again!’

He turned around to his bandmates, the three figures Grantaire had been introduced to, ‘I have the pleasure of introducing you to a real gem amongst people, a libertine amongst philosophers, a star on the clouded night sky. Babet, Claquesous, Gueulemer – this is the much-talked about Enjolras!’

‘Who?’

Grantaire recognised Babet’s voice from the Patron-Minette albums. According to his Wikipedia-entry, he was the oldest in the band and seemed somewhat sensible, at least when compared to Montparnasse. He pushed forward, a lean figure clad in black and bordeaux. His deep eyes gleamed curiously as he looked around the gathered friends, fixing his look on Enjolras. Claquesous followed him, square shoulders pulled back in a tight leather jacket that had spikes and studs on the shoulders. He was the drummer to Babet’s guitar, Montparnasse’s voice and Gueulemer’s bass, a quiet, yet intriguing character. Grantaire caught his eye for a moment but no reaction was apparent. The fourth of them, a colossus of a man, did not need to move to take a look at them, towering over his band mates as he was.

‘Prouvaire and Enjolras in one room,’ Montparnasse sighed, stepping forward until he came close to touching Jehan, ‘this is like that night back then, do you remember?’

Jehan blushed through the glitter they had applied to their cheeks, one hand squeezing Bahorel’s arm tight enough to leave scratches. They seemed agitated enough for Bahorel to allow it. Grantaire slipped back into his chair and hid behind the wall his friends made between their table and Patron-Minette.

‘Have you really just come here to gloat?’

Montparnasse attention returned to Enjolras, ‘No actually, we came here to celebrate the new sales record our latest album set. Also, we have a gig in here Saturday evening, right after a sold out show at the stadium, go figure what that means for Patron-Minette. But here I stand, talking of my band; what is new with you, have you made any progress in getting famous? Any concerts, gigs, albums? I always told you the academy is a waste of time, it takes other things to make a career of music. There are too many concert pianists as there are, don’t you agree?’

The comment was followed by a barking laugh from Claquesous. Grantaire watched Enjolras carefully, his jaw was working and the vein on his neck pulsated violently. He hated seeing him like that, Montparnasse’s appearance alone seemed to have angered him enough to have him of the edge of an explosion. Half of the room stared at _Patron-Minette_ with barely contained anger, only Courfeyrac seemed torn between meeting his favourite band and defending his friends; he stood behind Combeferre and fisted his hands into his boyfriend’s jumper.

‘What happened, Enj, you used to be so eloquent. You should get onto a stage once in a while, that’ll keep your hands in. All this studying, and for what? No one needs any more concert pianists! You should start a band to make anything of that dream of yours,’ Montparnasse grinned and Grantaire remembered the charismatic smile he had on call.

It seemed to have tipped Enjolras over the edge. He stepped forward, staring down at Montparnasse with a blasé smug smile painted onto his stern face. It was an expression fitting for the son of rich landowners, not the young musician Grantaire had met. He was sure, if Enjolras had still been sitting behind a table, he would have climbed over it to get to Montparnasse.

His voice was nothing more than a sneer that made Grantaire shiver with anxiety as he all but spat, ‘Anyone can scream into a microphone, am I supposed to be impressed now?’

Bahorel whistled through his teeth and Bousset snickered behind him, Enjolras seemed to lose a little of the tension in his shoulders. Montparnasse seemed to have swallowed his tongue, he gawked at them, dark eyes flitting over them. He stared at Jehan until Bahorel cracked his knuckles and moved on to Combeferre and Feuilly. Being met with hostile looks, he found Cosette and Marius next. Enjolras had to have seen the way his leer pushed away the cautiousness in his expression and seemed to prepare for a fierce call out. Grantaire could not watch Enjolras reacting to Montparnasse’s provocations, he got up and pushed back past Combeferre and touched his arm.

‘You are wasting your time arguing against him. It’s not worth it,’ Montparnasse whipped around and stared at him, eyes ablaze with pleasant anticipation. Grantaire closed his eyes, awaiting what was undoubtedly to come.

‘Claquesous, this is a happy day. Three of my ghosts of days gone by in one room,’ he leered back at his band mates, ‘Grantaire, little, fat, hopeless Grantaire – is that you? I never thought anything would come of your ugly mug, and apparently I was right!’

He stepped around Enjolras, took Grantaire’s hand and pulled him back towards the table the Amis had sat at, shoving everybody around them out of his way. Grantaire stared down at their hands as Montparnasse pushed him into his chair and sat down next to him, still holding his hand.

‘Take a seat, guys,’ he called back at his bandmates, ‘I’ll be a moment with my good, old friend podge.’

Grantaire fought back the wince that clawed at his throat when he heard the old nickname. Countless afternoons that ended in comparisons of him and Montparnasse flooded back to him, his mother smiling at Montparnasse only to turn sour and disappear once he had left. Afternoons filled with more rehearsals and recitals than homework, not that anyone needed that, according to his mother.

‘Tell me, podge, what have you been up to? Obviously, you founded a fan club with Prouvaire and Enjolras, and it looks like you lost a little bit of weight. What are you up to nowadays, do you study at that fancy academy like your mother wanted?’

Grantaire nodded to keep him from prodding.

‘Really? I wouldn’t have expected they’d let you in; how much of it was your mother’s name? I doubt you’re there to study music,’ clothes rustled as Montparnasse leaned forward, ‘you know she told me you would never make it into the academy? So what do you study?’

He could not not tell him, Grantaire felt his throat close up around the word but it still pressed out, ‘Painting.’

‘Painting,’ Montparnasse cocked his head back with laughter, ‘you fucking paint? Who’s your muse then, huh? Don’t tell me it’s him – well, he is your type, isn’t he?’

He jerked his arm to the side and Grantaire knew his finger pointed at Enjolras without looking up. It was Montparnasse, the part of him that had wanted to believe he would not figure him out had been small to begin with. He felt his eyes start to sting, tears were trying to escape but he could not allow it. Grantaire wished he knew how to respond to Montparnasse without letting him see how bad it hurt to interact with him after all these years but his mind was blank and all it came up with was to confirm that, yes, Enjolras was the inspiration behind the best picture he had ever painted.

‘Get out!’ the words clawed at his throat from the inside but they came out as less than a small hiss that made Grantaire almost double over.

Montparnasse was still laughing, a purling laugh that threatened to make him sick. He felt alone in a room full of people, no one even paying attention to him, of course, he was the least interesting person in his own circle of friends.

‘Didn’t you hear him? Get out!’ the raw violence in Enjolras’ voice made the room fall silent, Montparnasse stopped laughing.

‘What was that?’ he stood up, a dark, threatening figure raising itself to its actual height to confront Enjolras.

Grantaire did not want to watch, his heart wished for a bottle of brandy or the ground to open up beneath him or both. His head felt heavy on his shoulders.

‘I said get out. Leave him alone with your games and whatever mischief you undoubtedly came up with! You are no longer welcome here, not as long as we booked this room for a private function.’

‘Not very inclusive today, Enjolras, wasn’t that your whole thing? Social justice and equality?’

‘ _Everyone’s equal when they’re dead_ ,’ Enjolras seemed to quote something back at Montparnasse but Grantaire could not tell where he had heard it before, ‘not even I would freely invite vermin to share a meal, I would only end up taking harm in their presence. Surely, you understand that. Now, leave my friends alone, take your tramps and leave us!’

The silence following his words was gravely. Grantaire knew Montparnasse well enough to know that he hated being told what to do.

‘’Parnasse, drop it. Let’s find one of the old pubs,’ Babet seemed to step forward, his voice candied, ‘we did not mean to disturb your…private function.’

‘Well,’ Montparnasse snarled, ‘the vermin is exterminated. A good metaphore, Enjolras, I give you as much. Let me just bid goodbye to my dearest podge.’

A fist clutched his shirt in the front and pulled him to his feet. Grantaire, no longer anything more than a marionette with cut strings, followed the movement without resistance, head hanging onto his chest. A second hand grabbed his chin and forced him to look up, look at Montparnasse whose cold eyes did not allow him to avoid their hard glances.

‘Remember, podge, you’ll always be mine.’

The words stung but did not hurt as much as the cruel lips on his, the venomous tongue shoved in his mouth and the touch of unwavering fingers against his jaw. He forced his mouth open until he went pliant under his hands, drilling his fingernails into the flesh of his cheeks until it felt like he had punctured the skin and pressed onto the teeth.

It lasted maybe five seconds before Montparnasse pushed him back, forcing him to take a step whilst their lips were still connected, biting down on his upper lip. Grantaire jerked his head back with a muffled yelp, one hand flying up to soothe the pain. He sank back down on his chair, face buried in his hands to hide both the hot tears of embarrassment welling up in his eyes and the marks Montparnasse had left around his mouth.

‘Out! Right now,’ Enjolras sounded icy as he shoved Montparnasse towards his bandmates who had fallen silent all of a sudden, ‘you have once again crossed a line and I will not have it.’

‘Would you look at that, little Grantaire has found himself a pet,’ he replied, his eyes glistening with the dangerous glee of a man who experienced an adrenaline rush.

‘Fucking lowlife,’ Enjolras jumped over a chair to get closer, fists raised and his face nothing more than a grimace.

‘Enjolras, calm down,’ Combeferre was at his side as soon as he had started to move, one hand on Enjolras’ chest, keeping him still and waving for Courfeyrac to help him, ‘you don’t want to do that, try thinking rationally! Over here Courf, now!’

Courfeyrac, utterly fearless as he was, stepped between the raging Enjolras and Montparnasse to motion towards the door, ‘Please go now, we can’t hold him back forever. See you at the concert though.’

If Grantaire saw correctly through the veil of tears, it was Babet who took Montparnasse by the arm and pulled him away from their group. Enjolras spit one insult after the other after them, until the door fell shut behind them. The sound of it hitting the frame echoed through the room, the only other sound being Enjolras’ heavy breathing.

‘Are you done?’ Combeferre let go of Enjolras, took Courfeyrac’s hand instead and turned around to face his best friend, ‘Provoked by Montparnasse, seventeen-year-old you would be ashamed! Your head is so full of ideas and change, and yet, here you are after almost starting a brawl in Chetta’s restaurant.’

‘Am I done?’ Enjolras huffed out an angry breath and turned back around, eyes fixed on Grantaire, ‘What was that, are you capable of doing anything under pressure?’

Grantaire lifted his head out of his hands and tried to play it off with a simple smirk, ‘I drink.’

‘Really? You can’t even fight for yourself! Don’t you have any concept of belief, loyalty, self-preservation or confidence?’

‘What do you mean,’ Grantaire fumbled for a tissue as the taste of blood in his mouth overwhelmed him, ‘can I get a drink to rinse this out?’

‘Don’t you at least believe in yourself, if not in anything else?’

Grantaire barked out a laugh, ‘You have met me, right? You did tell me you were my friend, now tell me whether there is anything I believe in.’

Every syllable hurt and tugged at his lips, and it seemed to be only partially because of the punctured skin but he would not back down, not with everybody watching. Joly cleared his throat and knocked on the table.

‘My birthday, boys, are you ready to join the party again?’

‘I’ll get you some ice for your –,‘ Musichetta motioned towards him, ‘Are you alright, Grantaire?’

‘What was that about?’ Cosette emerged from the corner she had been in, big eyes trained on Grantaire and the still agitated Enjolras.

‘Shadows of the past,’ Grantaire smiled at Musichetta when she returned with a bit of ice for his lips, ‘nothing to worry about.’

He directed the last sentence at Enjolras, accompanied with as much of a serious look as he could. For one moment, the questions in Enjolras’ eyes threatened to spill, corner him and leave him no other chance but to run. Then, they retreated, he nodded as he calmed down visibly and sat back down next to Grantaire. Joly reached across the table and handed them full beer glasses.

‘My birthday, drink up. I will not leave this restaurant before you are completely pissed and forget this whole evening. I want you to need Bousset or Baz to lean on when we head home, stumbling, slurring and plastered! That’s an order!’

The questions would be asked, Grantaire was sure of it, but he was not sure whether either of them would enjoy the answers he could provide. He could lie, make the situation more comfortable for both of them and go back to hating himself for it afterwards. He could tell the truth and risk losing the friendship he had with Enjolras.

Someone handed them another drink as soon as they had finished his beer and he knocked it back, glad that he did not have to speak about it just yet. Enjolras knocked back his shot with the same vigour, almost as if they made a pact not to talk about any of it.

Baz had to carry him home. The whole group had accompanied them home, Jehan had tied Combeferre’s tie around their head and sang harmonies with Courfeyrac, Cosette held Joly’s cane and steadied him, Marius looked after Bousset and Éponine carried a sleeping Gavroche until they reached the coffee shop on the corner where she waved after them and took her brother inside. The rest of the group walked back to the academy where Enjolras held the door open for all of them. At some point, Cosette’s red scarf had found its way around his waist where it was tied and made him look like a ‘swashbuckling pirate,’ as Bahorel had phrased it. He giggled gleefully as Bahorel walked past him with Grantaire on his back. It was the last thing Grantaire remembered before he blacked out.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

‘We are off, Grantaire, will you be okay?’ Joly poked his head through the door and waved carefully, ‘Both of us have our phones, we might just not hear them. we have some leftovers in the fridge, promise you won’t forget to eat?’

Grantaire nodded before returning to the sketch he tried to perfect in his notebook. He lay on his belly, one pencil in hand and another one behind his ear in a position that was almost successful in keeping his hair up.

‘Hey, are you sure that you’ll be fine?’ Bousset came in and sat down next to him, ‘Even when we’re going to a _Patron-Minette_ concert?’

‘No, Bousset, I want you to return the ticket you got as a present for Joly’s birthday to keep me company. Come on, man, we talked about this,’ Grantaire rolled over to look at him, ‘you are going to have a good evening with your boyfriend, just you go!’

‘You won’t be lonely?’

‘No, I will not.’

‘Even without Éponine to call?’

Grantaire shut his notebook, ‘She is going to drop Gavroche off before going, I am her babysitter for the night.’

‘Whoever thought that would be a good idea – you and Gavroche alone for a night,’ Bousset grinned carefully, ‘have fun babysitting, R. Are you ready, Joly? Musichetta’s surely waiting already!’

‘Are you taking her as well?’ Grantaire grinned, ‘You’ll have a blast! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

Bousset threw him an annoyed look before waving and turning around to leave with Joly. They had asked him three times before whether he was alright with them actually going to the _Patron-Minette_ concert. Grantaire had assured them that he would be fine. Éponine asking him to babysit Gavroche had provided him with something to worry about.

She knocked on the door a few minutes after Bousset and Joly had left, Gavroche in tow. Her brother carried his overnight bag and a fluffy pillow. Éponine pushed him forward with a tired smile, Grantaire nodded softly and kissed her cheek.

‘Off you go, the dwarf is in good hands,’ Gavroche stuck his tongue out at him before squeezing past him into the flat.

Grantaire rolled his eyes and followed him back inside. Gavroche had already sat down on the sofa after having simply dropped his bag next to the kitchen door.

‘Have you got chocolate or crisps? Ép promised me I would get to watch movies with you,’ he grabbed the remote from the coffee table.

‘Forget it, squirt, we have something else on our agenda. And do you really think Ép and I don’t talk about what you are allowed to do when you are here? The rules haven’t changed.’

Gavroche frowned but sat up to look at him, ‘What are we doing tonight, if not watching movies?’

‘We are going out. You might even get a sugary drink, if you behave yourself.’

‘I don’t know what you are talking about, I am an angel.’

‘Sure you are, Gavinou,’ he grabbed his beanie and leather jacket from the coat hanger, ‘do you want to join me at the _Musain_?’

Gavroche followed him, grumbling about being forced to go out late at night but he stayed close to him until they reached the _Musian_ and sat down at a table in the back of the room. Grantaire ordered a lemonade for the boy who had immediately pulled his phone from his pocket to immerse himself into a game and a drink for himself. He let his gaze wander, careful not to stare at other customers. Eventually, he found who he had been looking for.

Admittedly, the group was not as impressive as it would have been on any other Friday evening but seeing Enjolras, Feuilly and Combeferre at a table close to the backroom assured him that the Les Amis meetings would usually take place there. The three men were huddled together, glasses in front of them and deep into a conversation.

‘Who are they?’ Gavroche peered over the top of his phone and grabbed his glass of lemonade, ‘You keep glancing over there and I know they were there yesterday but no one explained how you and Joly know them well enough to invite them to a birthday party.’

Grantaire shook his head, ‘None of your business.’

He knocked back his drink and took his notebook out. Gavroche watched his every move, shrugged and returned to his game. He seemed absorbed enough that Grantaire dared to actually start a new sketch, something that had gotten stuck in a dark corner of his mind. Before he knew it, he had started drawing an angry Enjolras, squaring off against a dark silhouette that seemed to shrink down before him. He wished he could replace the memory of the night before with the one he made up on the paper, wished he could forget Montparnasse’s triumphant grin and the way Claquesous had looked away once the arguments seized to fly. He had not wanted to face what Montparnasse did when his blood boiled and he felt invincible and Grantaire forgave him for it. It was not easy to see Montparnasse when he acted as ferociously as he had the night before.

‘He’s coming over,’ Gavroche’s voice brought him back, ‘you might want to close that.’

Grantaire shut his notebook with a smack and looked up, feeling his fingers beginning to shake when Enjolras sat down next to him, a beaming smile on his face, ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I figured there wouldn’t be a meeting with everybody gone out tonight,’ Grantaire had to clear his throat in order to force a sound out, ‘but I still felt I should be here after I missed the last two. A question of honour, in a way.’

Enjolras did not believe him, judging by the deep wrinkle between his eyebrows that had replaced the smile immediately. He studied Grantaire’s face closely, presumably to find the truth between his lips or in his eyes but Grantaire held against his piercing stare with a smile. Next to him, Gavroche rolled his eyes and set his phone down. Judging by the noises spilling from the abandoned headphones, he was playing some kind of candy sorting game.

‘Thank you for coming,’ Enjolras broke their silence eventually, ‘we don’t discuss as much as usually today but you are very welcome to join us.’

Gavroche yawned and earned himself a poke to the ribs from Grantaire, ‘Think about whether you want to sleep right here, Gavinou.’

‘Isn’t that Éponine’s brother?’

‘Yes, and I am the trusty babysitter, looking out for the poor, helpless child,’ Gavroche kicked him in the shin for it but he deemed it worth the risk, ‘well, I try my best, as long as he doesn’t annoy me beyond reason.’

‘He promised we would watch movies and instead he brought me here,’ Gavroche rolled his eyes again, ‘are you doing anything more interesting than he is with his notebook?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Enjolras responded in all seriousness, ‘Grantaire’s notebook holds everything his whole course of studies is depending on, it is the fountain of inspiration and beauty that are his pieces.’

‘How many of his pieces have you actually seen?’ Gavroche leaned back in his chair, ‘Hey R, can I have another drink?’

‘Yes, get yourself a lemonade and have them put it on my tab,’ the boy scurried away and left Grantaire and Enjolras at the table.

‘He’s got a point, you know? The only pictures of yours I have seen are the ones in the staircase, on Jehan’s wall and the one I saw you drawing that morning when you drew the sunrise.’

‘You saw my paintings, then,’ Grantaire pocketed his notebook, ‘there really isn’t anything special about it, a few smudged sketches, some colour studies, but nothing more.’

‘I will prove you wrong about that, at some point,’ Enjolras waved Combeferre and Feuilly to join them at their table.

They took a detour to the bar to get everybody another drink and Grantaire was torn between appreciating Combeferre for getting him another drink and the feeling of dread about drinking even more in front of Enjolras. He had avoided further comments on his drinking habits and it had been a few quiet days in Enjolras’ company.

Combeferre set the glass down in front of him, ‘Here’s to a night on the town, boys!’

‘What’s wrong with him?’ Gavroche slipped back onto his chair and set a glass of coke down, meeting Grantaire’s disapproving look defiantly, ‘What, I am bound to get something you didn’t allow me, if you don’t control me!’

Grantaire sighed and let him have the glass. He drew a line when Gavroche tried to sneak his alcoholic drink into the glass of coke. A stern look and a smack on the creeping hand silenced him for a moment before Gavroche piped up again.

‘You know what’s unfair? Adults deciding when kids are allowed to drink alcohol.’

‘It’s bad for you,’ Grantaire pushed the glass further away from the boy, ‘and when you’re an adult you are officially allowed to ruin your body, mind and life yourself.’

‘That’s bullshit, they used to give beer to kids!’

‘Yes, during the Middle Ages,’ Enjolras leaned forward slightly, ‘and those times are over.’

‘Kids are still allowed to drink wine in England from age five onwards!’

‘With their parent’s permission,’ Gavroche crossed his arms over his chest, ‘What do you call that, if not a dictatorship?’

‘Not having to look after pissed toddlers.’

‘I’m almost eleven!’

Enjolras knitted his brows together, ‘We should not encourage young people to destroy their brain cells throughout their early childhood and adolescence!’

‘See? ‘We’ shouldn’t. Because of course you are one of exactly these adults who decide whether it should be allowed,’ Gavroche stared at Enjolras with dark eyes.

Feuilly sighed and nudged Grantaire, ‘I think we should keep them separate. They seem a little too similar in two different extremes, it might not be healthy to have them in the same room for a prolonged period of time.’

‘At least not without supervision and surveillance,’ Combeferre added and poked Enjolras, ‘otherwise we could just get them a ball pit and water pistols and leave them to it.’

‘We could,’ Grantaire looked around the room, ‘but I am not the one cleaning up after them.’

Enjolras whipped around to shoot him a stern look. He seemed not impressed by the turn the conversation had taken, as opposing to Gavroche who beamed at the idea of a water pistol in his hands.

‘Next summer,’ Grantaire ruffled his hair, ‘You can have one next summer, if you promise not to spray me with it.’

‘Promise,’ Gavroche turned back to Grantaire, ‘what about movie night, though?’

‘Yeah, you deserve that. You guys want to come as well?’

***

Combeferre and Feuilly headed off to a bar in town, not particularly keen on watching a children’s movie with them. They waved back at them before rounding a corner. Gavroche seemed pleased to have bullied Grantaire into allowing him to watch movies for the rest of the night, he skipped down the street in front of him and Enjolras, bouncing off railings, walls and steps on his way.

‘Any idea what movie to put on for him?’ Grantaire turned to Enjolras, ‘I don’t think we have many age appropriate movies at home, all we have is Netflix and I don’t really want him to browse my watchlist.’

Enjolras barked out a laugh before sobering up visibly, ‘We have a few Disney movies, Courf is working on assembling a collection. I can have a look around for you, if you want me to.’

‘Thanks, you’re a lifesaver. Also, you’re more than welcome to join us, I meant that.’

Once home, he wrangled Gavroche onto the sofa and got a bag of crisps and something to drink from the kitchen for him, leaving the door open for Enjolras to join them a few minutes later. He had brought two DVDs which he put down on the table in front of them. There was something anxious about the way his eyes darted from one corner of the room to the other before he sat down in one corner of the sofa.

‘Right, Gavinou,’ Grantaire looked at the DVD covers, ‘ _Coco_ or _Toy Story_?’

Gavroche rolled his eyes at him, ‘I’m not a baby anymore!’

‘I like _Coco_ ,’ Enjolras chipped in, smiling cautiously, ‘it conveys a very important message.’

‘You watch Disney movies?’ Gavroche eyed him suspiciously, ‘You don’t seem like somebody who supports capitalist companies that dominate the market to the extent of almost claiming a monopoly.’

Grantaire bit his tongue just in time to stop a laugh breaking out against his will. Enjolras looked perfectly stunned by Gavroche’s serious gaze, eyes boring into his and arms crossed over his chest. They seemed to square off without words as Grantaire put the DVD into the system and switched on the TV.

‘Okay kids, are you ready to start this movie?’ he flopped back against the sofa, ‘No more bickering and arguing?’

‘You can’t say that,’ Gavroche sulked in his corner of the couch, ‘You argue with Ép all the time.’

‘Yes, because we are friends.’

‘Enjolras is my friend now.’

Enjolras, half buried under a blanket and two pillows, shook his head frantically. Grantaire enjoyed the moment for as long as it lasted, then he threw a cushion at Gavroche.

‘Sit down, rascal. You’re beginning to annoy Enjolras and me now. Watch the movie and eat your crisps.’

Gavroche threw him a distracted salute because the movie started. One of his hands stayed buried in his bowl of crisps during the first half of the movie and he seemed glued to the screen which was enough for Grantaire to sigh out in relief. Babysitting Gavroche only turned into an actual challenge if he was denied his weekend night joys of movies and snacks, Éponine’s job was then to get him to go to clean his teeth and go to sleep. Essentially, their jobs fell into a parental routine and had remained that way ever since Éponine and he had become friends. He had helped her out when her parents had kicked Gavroche out the first time and left the then eight year old at his sister’s mercy. Neither Éponine nor Grantaire made a lot of money but Gavroche still had something resembling a stable home.

The movie went on without any of them saying a word, Gavroche seemed to enjoy it despite the comments he had made before. Enjolras was snuggled into the corner of the sofa, pulled the blanket up to his chin and followed every animated second closely. The movie’s message certainly was not lost on him.

Grantaire felt his throat close up. The movie indeed had a message, and one he understood Enjolras wanted to follow up on. Being remembered in the afterlife for what they had done for their family, friends or the community was something Enjolras would strive to achieve. It only highlighted how much Grantaire failed to make an impact in any way. The realisation that he would hardly be remembered by anyone after he died hit around the one hour mark. As the fight to restore a memory from beyond the grave broke out on the TV screen, he could not fight off the tears shooting up into his eyes.

‘Are you alright?’ Gavroche’s voice spooked him, he wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his jumper and nodded, ‘Because you don’t look alright.’

‘It’s alright, Gavinou,’ Grantaire cleared his throat, ‘Disney movies make me emotional, you know that.’

The sounds of blankets rustling, a pillow being dislodged and finally, socked feet on the parquet drowned out Gavroche’s answer. Grantaire proceeded to angrily wipe at his eyes, trying to cover the treacherous red splodges on his cheeks.

‘Do you want to share the blanket?’ Enjolras sat down next to him, scooting back until he could pull his feet up onto the sofa.

He draped the blanket over both of them, tugging it around Grantaire’s shoulders. Grantaire felt the anxiety melt away underneath the comfortable fleece blanket Bousset had bought to comfort them whenever they needed it. One arm snaked around his back and a head rested on his shoulder. Enjolras leaned into him for the rest of the movie.

‘You are freakishly tall, you know that, right? There is no way this is comfortable for you,’ Grantaire watched as Gavroche go up and exchanged the DVD for _Toy Story_ , ‘are you alright?’

‘He’s crying,’ Gavroche grinned back at him, ‘god, you two are such wussies!’

‘Careful, rascal, your father is showing again,’ Grantaire moved a little to peer down at Enjolras, ‘honestly, are you alright?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ Enjolras’ voice sounded a little husky and his eyes shone when he looked up at him, ‘it’s the movie. I love it but it makes me cry every time I watch it. The message it conveys is one of such great importance, I can’t help it.’

‘Same,’ Grantaire shuffled deeper under the blanket, ‘of course, the reality of nihilism is not going to be changed by one Disney movie and any belief in an afterlife is futile but I guess some part of the human mind will always respond to the emotional power of family, friends and the need to feel appreciated. Human hubris might be part of it as well.’

‘What is wrong with being remembered for the impact you made on the world? People holding up the standards you set, remembering how inspirational you were?’

‘Now that is hypocritical. You, leading a student debate group with the potential to actually distribute flyers to random strangers and some of them even reading them, will naturally assume that people remember the ideas you stand for. Not everybody is in your position, though. The majority of the people you talk to in the street will be forgotten and never thought of again, just because they do not partake in whatever cause is popular with a current generation.’

‘Oh really? And what is your stance on the afterlife?’

‘Well, if you need a power or institution like any religion or church to tell you that you will basically not stop living when you die but get to live on, it’s a weak apology for the narcissism of the human race. Why not accept that we dig holes, shove our dead in there and leave them there to rot? The transcendental belief that we rise to heaven or fall to hell is decided by a system made up by some of the most oppressive, bigoted groups, responsible for killing millions of people throughout all of history! Do you want to believe in the afterlife as an idea made up by guys in funny hats?’

Enjolras stared up at him, brows knitted together, ‘I know you’re just trying to hide how much that movie touched you but it still hurts on so many levels to hear you say that!’

‘You really think I would joke about nihilism to hide my emotions? Because you are absolutely right.’

‘He’ll joke about anything,’ Gavroche turned back around, shoving a last hand full of crisps into his mouth, ‘may I have some more crisps?’

‘Yeah, sure. Get something to drink for us as well!’

‘You’re a slave driver!’

‘You’re tiny.’

‘You’re sweet.’

‘How am I supposed to come back from that?’

Enjolras snickered against his shoulder, both a movement and a sound that distracted Grantaire long enough for Gavroche to slip past them and sneak into the kitchen. A moment later, they heard packages crackling.

‘Did you hear him? Complementing in the middle of a call out, what’s that about?’

‘Are you really upset about it?’ Enjolras cuddled back into the sofa, ‘Because if you are, there is nothing I can do for you. Well, probably cuddle you but that’s really down to –‘

Two phones going off interrupted him. They exchanged a look before fumbling for them under the blanket.

‘Courf?’

‘Joly?’

‘R, please tell me you and Enjolras are not spending the night together at our place,’ Joly yelled at him, the distinctive noise of the concert blaring in the background, ‘Anyways, you need to hear this.’

Apparently, Enjolras had received a similar call from Courfeyrac, they put both their calls on speaker and held their phones out. A deep crease appeared between Enjolras’ brows as the cheers of a sold out venue and a few aggressive guitar riffs mixed and echoed back at them as though it came through a tin can.

‘So how are we tonight,’ that was Montparnasse, screaming into a microphone, ‘have you had fun? A good time?’

A huge, tinny cheer erupted from both their phones. Gavroche wandered back into the room, setting down crisps, jellybeans, soft drinks and pretzel sticks before shooting Grantaire a suspicious look.

‘Is that Montparnasse?’

‘Shh!’

Gavroche sat down and opened a bag of jellybeans. Montparnasse continued what Grantaire thought to be the wrap up of the concert.

‘Now, you have come here because you like _Patron-Minette_ and, hopefully, our music. We are grateful for every single one of our fans and we hope you truly enjoyed this evening! There are, however, ye of little faith. Can I have one ‘boo’ for all the people who try to drag us down, diminish our success and talk down to us?’

By this point, the noise erupting from their phones overmodulated. Enjolras pulled a grimace and turned into Grantaire’s shoulder again.

‘So, there is this classical pianist from the academy in one of the posh old buildings downtown. We’ve had a bit of a bumpy relationship for years but now he’s dragged one of my childhood friends into the mess. I have decided to be the bigger person here and not call him out on his bigotry. I will not stand here and justify a feud that started before _Patron-Minette_ came to be. Instead, I propose for this to be settled in a way that shall be agreeable with the gentleman. A duel, fought on the ivory spines of two pianofortes until a winner is decreed!’

A cheer interrupted him. Enjolras had grown even tenser on Grantaire’s shoulder, his fingers clenched around the seam of the blanket that still covered them

‘Take out your mobiles, friends, I want this message on all platforms by the end of this night,’ Montparnasse took a dramatic break before continuing, ‘Enjolras, my dear, I am sure at least two of your friends are here tonight and will let you know about my proposal. Please do come back to me and we can settle on a date, location and the rules for what I hope will be of agreement to you!’

‘Did you hear that?’ Courfeyrac’s excited voice cut through the loud cheers omitted by the crowd, ‘He challenged you to a play-off!’

‘Yes. Yes, I heard,’ Enjolras took his phone with a shaking hand, ‘thanks, Courf. I hope you get home safely.’

‘Hey R?’ Joly’s earnest voice rang up at him, ‘Hug Enjolras from Bousset, Musichetta and me, will you? I’m sure he needs it for now. We met Courfeyrac and the happy couple, along with Ép and might go out for a drink later before turning in. Take care, okay?’

‘I will.’

‘And R?’

‘Yes?’

‘No drinking on the job. You can get pissed as soon as Gavroche is sleeping.’

‘No drinking at all,’ Grantaire interrupted, ‘Gavroche deserves better from me.’

Gavroche answered this declaration by throwing a jellybean at him. He finished the call and set his phone back down on the table.

‘You heard him. Ready for a cuddle? We can talk about this once Gavroche is asleep, there is no need to get worked up now.’

‘You’re right,’ Enjolras settled back into the sofa, ‘it does affect you as well, after all.’

His expression seemed to darken for a moment. Something close to anger or despair seemed to linger in the corners of his eyes before he allowed Grantaire to put his arm around him in a hug that turned out a little stiffer than their previous position under the position.

‘I told you, you are too tall for this. We can alter this slightly, if you want to,’ Grantaire moved to turn them, pulling his own feet onto the sofa, ‘better?’

‘Yes, better,’ Enjolras moved into the space Grantaire made between his arm and body, ‘are you alright?’

‘Well, I’ve only been mentioned in passing; you are the one he challenged to a duel like Steibelt challenged Beethoven, Salieri worked against Mozart or Pan dared Apollo. Your chances are not too bad, then. You’ve got the looks of a young Apollo and as far as I am concerned, your play leaves nothing to be desired,’ Grantaire waved for Gavroche to pass him some jellybeans, ‘Come on, Gavinou, be a good sport!’

Gavroche obliged with a little less energy than he had a few hours back. He seemed to struggle through the next minutes of the movie, his eyes drooping shut. Eventually, he curled up into a ball, a blanket over his body with his eyes closed and his head on one of the pillows.

Enjolras reached for the remote control and muted the movie, ‘What do you want to talk about?’

‘You misunderstand me, dear Apollo, it is not I who wants to talk about Montparnasse’s schemes. He wants us to talk, he wants everybody to talk. He very effectively forced himself onto both of us with that speech of his. Making the people there record it makes it more public than it would ever been if we had only heard of it by accident.’

‘I will have to accept, don’t I?’ Enjolras sounded unhappy about the prospect, ‘And to think that he must have brooded over it for God knows how long! Montparnasse never does anything without considering all aspects of his undertakings carefully. He must have thought of the whole scheme for weeks before coming back here.’

‘Aye,’ Grantaire felt his fingers itch for a drink but he kept his head low. Neither Enjolras nor Gavroche deserved him to give up on this evening of all, both dealing with the shadows of a past they could not outrun.

‘Would it…would it be alright for you to-,’ Enjolras stopped himself before finishing the sentence.

‘To do what? Anything, my Apollo, you need merely ask.’

‘Be serious. This is not easy for me to say,’ Enjolras sat up, slipping out of Grantaire’s arms, ‘but would you mind brushing my hair?’

Grantaire blinked a few times before processing what Enjolras had asked off him, ‘Sure. Let me get a brush and you settle down.’

He scrambled off the sofa and into his room to grab his own brush from the dresser and return to the living room where Enjolras had slipped to the floor and settled on the fluffy rug in front of the sofa. Grantaire climbed over the arm rest and sat down with his legs in Enjolras’ back.

‘Ready?’

‘Sure, brush away,’ Enjolras shook his hair over his shoulders.

‘Is this something you do regularly, have friends brush your hair?’

‘No, it’s something my mother used to do. I know it’s silly but whenever I was upset she would sit me down, sing some kind of folk song and brush my hair. The family liked me to wear it long, even then, and I liked it being brushed by somebody else.’

‘It must be nice,’ Grantaire allowed the brush to glide over Enjolras’ soft curls, ‘your mother brushed your hair?’

‘Yes. Didn’t yours?’

He allowed a small noise to escape that could have been read as an amused sound, ‘My mother did a great deal of things, but never that.’

‘Really? But you must have had some kind of ritual to pick you up when you were down!’

‘My father used to lift me off the ground and swirl me around making aeroplane noises,’ his voice turned soft and mushy when the memory finally graced him with its presence, the attempt to come up with some comfortable story from his childhood, ‘I did enjoy that but, alas, I grew too big and heavy to be lifted off the ground too soon.’

The brush happened on a tangle in the otherwise smooth hair and Grantaire set the brush aside to use his fingers to carefully detangle the knots. He enjoyed the feeling of Enjolras’ hair under his fingertips, almost like the squirrel hair brush Lamarque had had them use for some of their studies. The knots dissolved easily and he combed through them with his fingers for a moment longer.

‘Don’t take this the wrong way,’ Enjolras voice bore an easy tone, ‘but you seem to do it exactly like my mother.’

‘Does she still do it? When you get to go home, that is.’

‘No. She died a few years ago. I only have my father now who is more inclined to take me to concerts, share his library and thoughts with me, as it is.’

‘I am sorry to hear that,’ Grantaire took up the brush again.

‘Don’t be sorry. I do believe in an afterlife and being reunited with your loved ones once one dies.’

‘Well, I can hardly be my sceptic self about that,’ he said softly, trying to keep the mortified embarrassment out of his voice, determined to give no sign of what he regretted saying in hindsight.

There were not many knots in Enjolras’ hair but he embraced the opportunity to let the long curls glide through his fingers for a little longer before he turned around, smiled cautiously and got up to return to his flat. They parted at the door and Grantaire felt his face revert back into its usual anxious mask as soon as the door closed. The living room seemed emptier, Grantaire switched the TV off, pulled the blanket that covered Gavroche tighter around him, added another one for good measure and carried all remains of their spontaneous movie night back into the kitchen before retiring to his own bedroom. He fell asleep listening to his updated playlist of piano music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

The next days were filled with the echo of angry, furious piano pieces wafting through the corridors. Enjolras seemed to discover one piece after the other, all played in fortissimo, stomping and clashing, thrown back from the walls like a rubber ball. Their extended group of friends did not come together during these days with neither Enjolras nor Grantaire inclined to be in their joyous company.

Jehan and Courfeyrac, if he understood correctly, were concerned for their wellbeing but entertained daydreams of the romantic side. Grantaire could not imagine what kind of thoughts they had developed, he dared not approach Enjolras in his sour mood and Joly and Bousset were of little help. Since the concert, they had been in an eerily cheery mood that only seemed to have a dampener put on it when Grantaire entered a room they were in. He did not ask them what their change of behaviour was about.

Instead, he worked on the few assignments and essays he still had to finish. He had to attend another meeting with Professor Lamarque that left him speechless as his mentor insisted he should be nominated for the Dean’s award, ‘for any of your work.’

He locked himself into his studio, staring at the wall, his laptop or a canvas. The number of his clothes without paint stains receded by the day and more often than not, the water flowing down the shower drain was colourful as a rainbow. He could not see the colours, preferred greys and balanced the colours he needed for his pictures with pencil sketches in one of his notebooks. The smudges on his hands, forearms and, somehow, his nose, spoke a language he did not understand, no matter how hard he tried. The sketches all morphed into shapes of human beings in different postures, character studies, one might have called them but they did not resemble the variety needed for them to be such.

He did not stop in the music corridor when he went upstairs at night, dreading the harsh melodies seeping from Enjolras’ room. It reminded him of the way his mother used to play whenever she wanted to drown out the world and it had been dangerous to approach her. He remembered books being swept off the grand piano in the salon and harsh words being exchanged between his parents on the matter.

He poured it into more pictures of shadowy figures and dark sceneries. Ghostly characters surrounded the subjects he chose to depict, closing in on them, leaving them with little room to breathe.

A similar passion and force went into the boxing sessions with Bahorel which he started to go to every morning after breakfast. He prided himself in the way he found back into his old form a little more with every time he stepped into the ring. More than before, he seemed to have convinced himself to look after himself. Or at least committed to trying to do so. He allowed Joly to cook for him, even if he did not share the kitchen with them when they ate and tried to go to the gym for the first time in months.

There was a knock on his studio door, faint enough that he thought he had imagined it. He could not spot anybody close to his door, so he turned back around to face the canvas he had been working on. His phone started ringing.

‘Yes?’

‘We are getting together tonight in an out of band meeting.’

‘Hello Combeferre, how are you doing today?’

‘Tonight, _Musian_. No jokes, no sarcasm, no mockery. Understood? It’s important.’

‘You are asking a saint to sin here, mate. What’s the hassle?’ Grantaire clamped his phone between his ear and shoulder, ‘Can’t wait till Friday to see us again?’

‘No, more pressing issues that might take up more time than the usual slot, that’s why Courfeyrac and I suggested to Enjolras to have another meeting. Will you join us?’

‘I don’t know whether we had plans –‘

‘Joly and Bahorel assured me they would be there.’

‘I’ll be there then,’ he sighed and propped his elbow up on the table to glance at his wrist watch, ‘what time did you plan on going?’

‘Around seven, we could grab a bite before starting.’

‘Does Enjolras know about that?’

‘Yes, he does,’ Enjolras’ voice cut in, almost making Grantaire jump, ‘and he hasn’t had lunch, despite Combeferre’s nagging, so I’m starving!’

‘I’ll be there, of course I will,’ Grantaire flopped back onto the divan, ‘See you then.’

He ended the call and threw his phone between the cushions, ‘See you then? What the hell was that, Grantaire, you sound like a little girl. Sure, because sounding needy has gotten you so far.’

He grabbed his notepad from the table and settled back against the rest. Something about the last days was nudging his brain to put it down on paper. His fingers fumbled for his charcoals, the box had slipped under the divan at some point. The shiny box had been a Christmas present from Jehan, together with a dress shirt for the next gallery opening or his shifts at the museum. Their only condition had been that Grantaire was to keep them paint stain free. He had accomplished to keep them clean for a week, then he had been struck by inspiration when he came home and headed straight into his studio.

The charcoal moved smoothly over the thick paper, conjuring up the lines of two figures, standing face to face. Their surroundings turned dark immediately beyond their outlines. He added stern features to their faces, the seriousness of years beyond their reach mirrored in their dark eyes.

‘The resemblance is uncanny,’ he mumbled to himself as he finished one figure’s dark suit, ‘a bloody crow amongst people, just missing the mad glint in his eyes now.’

Finishing the picture took him long enough to miss his friends leaving for the _Musain_. Jehan sent him a message but he did not hear his phone under the pillows and it was too late to answer when he thought to check it. Instead, he grabbed his notebook, some pencils and a chocolate bar that had found its way under the radiator. It was a little soft but still salvageable.

The walk down to the café did not take long but he stopped to look through some of the displays in shop windows along the way. One of his favourite charity shops had put some music books on display, he entered and looked through them a little more careful. Two of them, battered editions of Grieg’s _Piano Concert in a Minor_ and Berlioz’ _Symphonie Fantatisque_ , caught his eye and he hovered over them for a moment.

The shop assistant came closer, ‘Found something amongst these gems?’

‘Definitely. Grieg only wrote one piano concerto,’ he opened the first page and smiled, ‘on the other hand, Berlioz is said to have written the whole thing for Liszt. I’ll take it.’

With the music book in his bag alongside the notebook and pencils, he continued towards the Musian. The noise coming from the back was without doubt the mixture of Bahorel’s booming voice, Enjolras’ agitated arguments and roaring laughter from everybody else. Grantaire asked about his companions at the bar where he got himself a beer and the information that his friends had not yet ordered food. He took his beer glass and went on towards the back room. He snuck into the back, patted Joly on the shoulder in passing and waved Marius who sat in one corner with Cosette. None of the others seemed to see him enter, Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras stood at the far end of the room and seemed in dispute; Jehan and Feuilly snickered on the quiet and Bahorel, Bousset and Éponine seemed to struggle with Gavroche. The boy seemed unimpressed by whatever had been discussed until Grantaire’s arrival.

‘As I was saying,’ Combeferre’s voice demanded their attention, conversations and laughter died down and heads were turned back to the front, ‘the only item on tonight’s agenda is the organisation of a piano duel between our own Enjolras and _Patron-Minette’s_ Montparnasse.’

Grantaire sat down on one of the empty chairs at a table in the darkest corner. Combeferre’s words seemed to have knocked the air out of his lungs.

‘I told you before, there is not going to be an open recital, no matter what you wish it to be,’ Enjolras rolled his eyes, ‘why would I give him more attention than he deserves, the self-righteous idiot.’

‘Because it is going to be the biggest opportunity to attract attention to us and the cause! Equal opportunities, freedom of expression and all of it through the fine arts. Nothing would be better to advertise our goal!’

‘You want it to be some baroque or absolutist king’s court entertainment, and I am not willing to sell my soul for this ridiculous idea of yours!’

‘What happened?’ Grantaire leaned over the table to hiss at Joly, ‘Did Combeferre lose his mind? Why would he propose something like that to Enjolras?’

‘You don’t get the whole picture, he thought up something rather brilliant,’ Joly turned back to him.

‘Although, I fear he used the wrong words. He could have phrased it differently,’ Feuilly sighed and leaned back, ‘Unfortunately, he drew up the comparison between Bach and Marchand in 1717.’

‘I didn’t really get what was wrong with drawing up another musical duel,’ Bousset chipped in.

‘Well,’ Grantaire cupped his chin in his hand, ‘the duel took place, of course but both duelling parties were working for members of the aristocracy –‘

‘Don’t say it,’ Feuilly shivered, ‘Enjolras will hear you!’

‘- one on invitation of the king of Saxony and the other for the regent of Weimar, a duke, if I’m not mistaken. They were set up by Jean Baptiste Volumier who didn’t want to lose his position at court to Marchand. The appointed day came and Bach arrived, however, Marchand was late. A herald was sent to retrieve him only to find that he had packed and fled. It came to light that he had made inquiries about Bach the night before and, upon discovering the true skill and expertise of his opponent, ran off back to France. Must have been quite the story, I would have loved to be a fly on the wall.’

‘That is all very well, but Enjolras will take your head off, if you say that any louder,’ Feuilly nodded back to the front of the room, ‘keep it down until Combeferre has persuaded him to agree to the whole thing. It’s only a matter of time until he succeeds, it always is. If there is one thing, Enjolras is bound to fall for, then it is Combeferre’s silver tongue.’

‘Well then,’ Courfeyrac jumped off his chair, ‘how about a vote on the matter?’

‘No, Courfeyrac, there is not going to be a vote on this! If I’m the one to face Montparnasse, you do not get a say, this is my decision! There is no way I am going to be part of something introduced to amuse tyrants and the powdered bourgeois of centuries past!’

‘What about a charity event?’

‘What was that?’

Courfeyrac slapped his knees and beamed at him, ‘Turn it into a charity event. Between Montparnasse’s appeal to a younger audience and your charme – I am sure you have attracted quite a few elderly ladies at the academy’s concerts who would pay any price to hear you play again – you should be able to draw in quite a crowd of substantial supporters.’

‘And this is your proposal?’ Enjolras’s expression turned cloudy, ‘A charity event to do what exactly? Was that the only idea you could come up with over a drink? Sounds like an idea Grantaire could have come up with.’

‘Present,’ Grantaire lifted his glass.

Enjolras found his eyes over the heads of everybody else in the room, ‘I didn’t see you come in.’

‘Well, I’m here now. Courf’s idea isn’t too bad. Of course, giving money to charity organisations will hardly bring the change you want to see, it’s merely a drop in the ocean but it is something. Montparnasse might even be vain enough to allow himself to be used for a cause other than himself but have you thought about the charity you would like to support, Courf?’

‘No, but there are more than enough. One of us should do some research. We could do the good all work sharing!’

Grantaire set his glass back down on the table and rested his head on his forearms. He stopped listening, Enjolras seemed busy enough with Courf and Combeferre and he doubted he was needed for the discussion. Joly and Feuilly exchanged wary looks but Grantaire only opened his notebook, took one of his pencils and started to sketch the scenery. The room had heated up a little since the discussion flared back up again and he did not intend to partake.

‘It is decided,’ Courfeyrac waved his scarf like a flag to get everybody’s attention, ‘Enjolras will answer Montparnasse’s challenge and we are going to organise a charity event to accompany it.’

‘Ferre, you take Cosette and ask the dean to allow us to use one of the concert halls,’ Enjolras’ stance had changed when Grantaire looked back up, ‘who would like to inform the authorities and facility management?’

‘Here,’ Feuilly lifted his arm.

‘Catering?’

‘We could ask Musichetta,’ Bousset toasted Joly who began to blush.

‘Very good networking, Bousset!’ Enjolras pointed at him, ‘Next point, judges?’

‘We need impartial judges,’ Combeferre stood from his seat, ‘any ideas?’

‘I could ask my father,’ Cosette looked around with rosy cheeks, ‘he might have his position but he is as just and impartial as can be.’

‘A good idea, we need at least two more. We could not risk a draw,’ the crease between Enjolras’ eyebrows had reappeared, ‘come on guys, you need to know more than Monsieur Valjean.’

‘You could always ask, you know,’ Courfeyrac swallowed audibly, ‘you could ask Javert?’

Enjolras frowned, ‘Well, he is impartial. We have to give him that. Volunteers to ask him?’

The silence that fell over the room seemed almost comically. It reminded Grantaire of the reaction to a teacher asking a question. Everybody seemed to have found something to occupy themselves with.

‘I’ll do it,’ Jehan put up their hand.

‘Are you sure?’ Grantaire threw him a serious look, ‘Your last run-in with him didn’t end well, did it? Are you sure you want to do this?’

‘Yes, I’ll be alright. He’s not going to kill me for asking him to be a judge for a decent cause.’

‘Not for that but probably for the smear poem you wrote about him last year,’ Grantaire grinned and nudged Jehan.

‘Thank you for your service, Jehan. Third judge, anyone?’

‘I might know someone,’ a few heads turned to Marius who seemed to shrink back into his seat, ‘an old friend of my father’s, he is definitely an impartial judge. He’s a churchwarden down at the cathedral.’

‘Perfect,’ Enjolras high-fived Combeferre, ‘you’ll take on the role of host, of course?’

‘Of course, my friend,’ Combeferre nodded, ‘has everybody got their task now?’

‘What about R and me?’ Bahorel sat up straight, ‘not that I can contribute a lot.’

‘You could assist Courfeyrac. He’s going to do all the advertising, we need every hand we can get,’ Combeferre turned around to face his boyfriend, ‘any ideas how you can market the whole thing?’

‘Yes, sure,’ Courfeyrac skipped towards them and hugged Grantaire, ‘with the artist and main attraction on board –‘

‘What do you mean,’ Grantaire closed his notebook with a slam, ‘main attraction?’

‘You have to be there, of course, Enjolras is going to fight for your honour after all.’

His brain did not seem to have conjured up this possibility of reasoning, Grantaire felt his jaw hit the table top and all blood leave his cheeks. Courfeyrac’s eyes glistened with overboarding joy and mischief as he sat down next to him.

‘It is going to be like a proper musical duel after all, just watch me. Enjolras won’t know what hit him.’

‘I doubt he’ll approve of your plans,’ Feuilly whispered, ‘and Grantaire doesn’t seem too thrilled by the idea either.’

‘No, he looks like he’s just met the ghost of the Christmas yet to come,’ Jehan sighed and took Grantaire’s hand, ‘are you alright, mon ami?’

‘I want the ground to open up and swallow me,’ Grantaire felt his throat close up, ‘I can’t, Jehan, I can’t do this. It’s going to be my end.’

‘No, Grantaire, you are going to be strong through this,’ Jehan looked at him, their deep eyes shimmering with tears, ‘you have come such a long way. Montparnasse does not control what you feel like and how you live your life. You have no obligation to be there, of course.’

They elbowed Courfeyrac in the ribs and threw him a sharp look, ‘Grantaire makes his own decisions. If he wants to contribute to posters or flyers, that’s his contribution. If he does not want to be there for the event, it is up to him. You don’t have to justify it, dear.’

Grantaire pulled them in for a hug, burying his head in their shoulder. A hand weaved in his hair and combed through it slowly, soothing the tightness in his neck.

‘Is Grantaire alright?’ Enjolras’ voice came closer, a few chairs scraped over the wooden floor boards, ‘We have some food coming up now.’

‘A little setback,’ Grantaire straightened himself up, ‘overwhelmed, if anything.’

Enjolras motioned at Courfeyrac to move aside, he sat down on Grantaire’s other side, ‘Will food help it a little?’

‘A little, probably,’ Grantaire nodded slowly, ‘how about you? This whole thing must be incredibly difficult for you, with Montparnasse and everything –‘

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘Sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Really?’ Grantaire shot him a look, ‘You look tired. Is the old hypocrite coming through again?’

Enjolras smiled faintly, ‘Maybe. Fortunately, I have you to point it out to me now.’

A waitress came in, carrying a huge tray with different bowls. Bahorel and Courfeyrac were the first to fill their plates and sit back down in conversation.

‘What would you like to have? I’ll get you something as well,’ Enjolras got up and patted him on the back, ‘Sandwiches okay?’

‘Sure,’ Grantaire passed the time it took Enjolras to fight through the group around the table with his notebook, drawing another version of the earlier charcoal sketch. This time, one of the figures changed, growing in height and slimmer in build.

‘Looks good,’ Enjolras sat back down next to him with two plates, ‘is that Montparnasse?’

‘You could use it as advertisement,’ Grantaire placed another set of lines along Montparnasse’s tophat, ‘I could print it, if you like.’

Enjolras nodded, ‘Thank you, R. It’s perfect.’

‘I’ll even leave out the cloven hoof and horns on his head,’ Grantaire stole a sandwich from his plate, ‘you can show it to him when you propose the whole thing to him. Make him look better, flatter him just enough, don’t make yourself nauseous.’

‘You do know the vain bastard well enough,’ Enjolras grinned, ‘how many rounds would you suggest?’

‘Rounds?’ Combeferre sat down next to him, ‘Are you talking about the rules?’

‘You will always appear in the right spot at the right time, won’t you?’ Enjolras put one arm around him, ‘I was just asking how many rounds Grantaire would deem right.’

‘Well, it should be at least four,’ Combeferre straightened his glasses, ‘Pre-classical, classical, modern, unknown.’

‘You would include sight-reading?’ Enjolras rocked back and forth in his seat, ‘Montparnasse used to be really good at that.’

‘So are you,’ Marius grinned around a sandwich, ‘you forget that all of us have heard you play before!’

‘Hear, hear!’ Bahorel knocked on the wooden table.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

‘He accepted the terms and conditions,’ Enjolras flopped down onto the divan, kicking his shoes off in the process, ‘two weeks from now, we will have our duel.’

‘So soon?’

‘Apparently, they need to keep to a schedule. More than that, they occupy the _Musain_ tonight which means we can’t have the meeting there.’

‘What a shame,’ Grantaire returned to the picture he was working on, ‘no meeting for the revolutionaries tonight?’

‘Of course we are still going to have a meeting. Patron-Minette do not stop us from getting together, the meeting tonight is too important!’

‘Where are you planning on meeting then?’ he put his brush between his teeth before stepping closer to the canvas.

A knock on the door made him turn back around but Enjolras had already jumped off the divan and opened the door, ‘There you are, take a seat and try not to disturb anything. I guess there are some wet paint splatters around here.’

‘What the –‘ Grantaire frantically held on to his brush as the entire group of his friends filed into his studio, ‘Enjolras, what did you do?’

‘We needed a room and your studio is one of the biggest in the academy.’

‘Yes, but it is also my studio!’

‘Come on, R, we need the space!’

‘I have assignments to finish,’ Grantaire looked around the room, ‘and this is not happening, Courf, get off the windowsill!’

‘It’s comfy!’

‘No lounging on the radiators, Baz!’

‘You never had a problem with it before!’

‘Until now,’ Grantaire growled, ‘get off there.’

‘Just tonight, R, please,’ Enjolras turned back around to him, eyes wide and pleading.

‘As you like it. But don’t expect me to take any part of this, or even attend your stupid duel. You were right, it is a symbol of all things bourgeois. You’re building the structure of all the change you want to bring on the foundations of the ideas you want to abolish! Equal rights for everybody applying to the academy? Yes, all for it, but the powdered ladies you are going to try and lure in for your charity event will see your name and your family, they will continue to sneer down at people who try to get in without the loaded family.’

‘Oh just stay at your canvas, we’ll get on with it. Alright everybody,’ Enjolras clapped a few times, turning on his heels, ‘two weeks today, Friday evening. What have we organised so far?’

‘The dean will allow us to use the big concert hall, the Hall of Mirrors,’ Combeferre thumbed through his journal, ‘tickets at the booking office and the secretary. We are allowed to put up posters as soon as Grantaire finished them.’

‘Good. Facility management?’

‘We have the sound systems booked,’ Feuilly nodded, ‘also, additional toilet paper will be provided.’

‘Catering?’

‘Musichetta offered a cold buffet, all we need to do in return is to advertise her,’ Joly’s cheeks were rosy and his excited knee bopped up and down.

‘Well done,’ Enjolras strode through the room, his energetic steps echoing through the room, ‘most important, though, do we have our judges?’

‘Monsieur Mabeuf said he would be honoured to be there,’ Marius smiled at Cosette who took his hand.

‘My father will be there as well. He seemed delighted, and he does enjoy piano music a lot, he asked me to thank you in advance for thinking of him as a judge.’

‘Please send him our regards.’

Cosette nodded and settled back against the wall. Grantaire noticed her sitting on an old palette. He hoped, for her light dress’ sake that it was dry.

‘Jehan?’

They had settled in the corner behind Grantaire after squeezing his hand in passing. Now, everybody turned to watch as they got up.

‘As you know, I went to great lengths and tribulations by approaching Monsiour Javert. I am going to spare you the gory details, he was very pleased to see me again, threatened suing but did hear me out eventually. Ladies, gentlemen and cryptids – Javert will judge at our event.’

‘Oh you beautiful soul!’ Courfeyrac threw himself across the room to hug Jehan, almost knocking into Grantaire’s easel.

He winced when the Hawaiian shirt clad ghost dashed past him, instinctively reaching for the canvas to keep it from falling. Enjolras shot him a short, worried look before exhaling slowly after Courfeyrac had reached Jehan. Grantaire did not keep himself from relishing in his friend feeling bad about the situation, he had brought it on himself, after all.

‘Good news from my end as well,’ Enjolras tore his gaze away, ‘Montparnasse has agreed to the terms and conditions Combeferre drew up for us. We are going to face off in four rounds, three of which will be prepared pieces. The fourth will be one decided on by the judges, a piece neither Montparnasse nor I will know about prior to the event.’

‘We have also approached Montparnasse about the judges and he agreed to all of them, pointing out that he knows about the relation between Monsieur Valjean and Cosette but reassured us that he trusts Valjean’s famous impartiality. Also, he paled a little when I mentioned Javert.’

‘Way to go,’ Feuilly grinned at Combeferre, ‘is that organisation done?’

‘Sounds like it,’ Enjolras looked around, ‘except for the poster and flyers. Thank you for being so efficient, everybody.’

‘Well then, everybody out of my studio,’ Grantaire threw the canvas on the small table, ‘you’ve had your meeting, you have occupied my space for long enough and I would like you to leave me alone now!’

He felt close to the edge. One thought seemed to have the power to top him over, push him into the self-made abyss of his mind. Again, Jehan squeezed his hand. Their eyes found his for a second, reassuring in the deep green they drowned him in.

‘He didn’t mean it. Remember that, love,’ they hugged him again, ‘Rough days, I know. You’re strong enough to fly. You are strong enough to build yourself. You are strong enough to be your own person. No one owns you, no one tells you what to do. You are a wonderful painter and artist, talented and inspirational. Remember that, will you?’

Grantaire kissed their cheek, ’Thank you, Jehan but I can’t accept it. It’s hard, you know? I seem to have ideas but as soon as I want to follow through on them and put the pencil to paper or canvas, my mind is either empty or just useless!’

‘It’s not, R,’ another kiss was pressed to his temple, ‘I’ll convince you at some point.’

‘I doubt it,’ he managed a weak smile, ‘but thank you. Have a nice evening, sweetest poet. Have you got plans with Baz?’

‘He called an early night because apparently you are going for an early training session in the morning?’

‘Oh, right,’ Grantaire nodded, ‘we wanted to make the most of it. You could join us afterwards though, we wanted to head to the pool. That is, if you can behave yourselves. I don’t want to be thrown out again for public indecency again.’

‘That happened one time,’ Bahorel blushed and took Jehan’s hand, ‘and you keep reminding us of it whenever you can.’

‘With pleasure,’ Grantaire felt his throat losen up as he watched his friends filed out of the room one by one, ‘thank you, Jehan.’

They left the room with a small wave, Bahorel following suit. Grantaire was sure he would pay for calling an early night, Jehan did rarely accept restrictions to their evenings. He had walked in on a massage session once when Bahorel had declared he was tired. His partner had jumped to the opportunity to treat both of them to an evening of indulgence that made Grantaire blush.

‘Grantaire?’ Enjolras hovered by the door, ‘Could I talk to you for a moment?’

He turned around, grabbed a few large-scale posters from their place under the radiator and unrolled them over the messy table. A palette was knocked to the ground and a few sketches soared down, slipping under the divan.

‘Careful!’ Enjolras jumped to his side.

‘Thank you, I am quite capable of doing this,’ Grantaire pushed a finger towards the posters, ‘there you go, your posters!’

‘But your sketches!’

‘Don’t mind them, I can pick them up later. Or leave them there, they are stupid, silly things anyway,’ he pushed the posters again, ‘take a look or leave them.’

Enjolras looked up, trying to catch his gaze. Grantaire did not grant him the pleasure of meeting his eyes, instead shuffling through the posters.

‘Come on then, I don’t have all night! You said the only thing remaining were the posters, here you have them. You can take them, show them around, anything! Get them back to me for printing some time before the concert.’

‘R –‘

‘Don’t you like them? I’ll make new ones.’

‘Sit down!’ Enjolras put his hands on his shoulders and pushed him down on the divan, ‘Grantaire, I am sorry! I was desperate, we needed a space to meet and your studio was the only place I could come up with on short notice.’

‘Oh really, there was no way you could find any other café or bar to meet up at?’

‘Allowing us to be here, Grantaire, can’t you make at least this sacrifice?’

‘At least? You come here, expecting me to go along with whatever you propose and I am not even allowed to be peeved about it? What if I decided I needed somewhere to go and just turned up in your room?’

‘It would not be a problem.’

‘What if it was me and four drinking buddies and we intended to get black-out drunk in your room?’

Enjolras snuffled but did not say a word on the matter until Grantaire finally lifted his head and blinked at him angrily, ‘I would tell you to find another place to go be a nuisance at.’

‘Exactly. Now, I know this fight is important for you and I might not share all your opinions but your happiness has become important to me. Don’t ask me why, I don’t know. But tonight really took the biscuit. You’re not going to look at them?’ he rolled the posters back up and threw them at Enjolras, ‘don’t bother. Get them back to me for printing, if you must.’

‘Grantaire –‘

‘No, I will not have this now. Maybe you need someone telling you how unbearable you can be. You truly have a tendency to be terrible, Apollo. It is a shame that no one seems to tell you.’

He motioned towards the door. Enjolras, looking up with something like regret in his eyes, turned around and left the room, slamming the door. Grantaire curled up on the divan, buried his head in the cushions and kicked the table for good measure. Painting supplies scattered everywhere and an empty booze bottle rolled right up to the door. He could not bring himself to care, self-pity descending on him like a thundercloud.

‘Right children, do you need me to supervise you every moment of your interaction?’ Combeferrre stomped through the door, pulling Enjolras along who seemed tempted to kick and scream like a toddler, ‘you need to sit down and talk, without screaming at each other, making assumptions or taking everything at word’s value.’

He stopped three steps into the room, ‘What happened, did you take out your anger on the room?’

‘Yes,’ Grantaire said into the pillow.

‘Hey, R,’ Enjolras’ voice made him flinch, ‘can I help you sort through everything? I would like to take you out for a coffee as well, to talk. Tomorrow, maybe?’

‘Boxing and swimming with Baz and Jehan,’ Grantaire sat up, pulling the cushion with him, ‘and I can clean up myself.’

‘Yes, I know. You are a capable adult,’ there was no sarcasm or spite in his voice, ‘I want to apologise, again. And maybe, I can explain something to you as well.’

‘You don’t have to,’ Grantaire said and got up, grabbing for the blanket that had slipped to the ground, ‘I’m sure you didn’t mean anything by it.’

‘See, that’s my point, I should explain myself, not just accept that you will ignore my behaviour and tolerate me doing whatever,’ Enjolras turned around to Combeferre and nodded, ‘I promise I’ll report back to you and Jehan.’

‘What’s going on with Jehan?’

‘They yelled at me for a few minutes, saying I had better apologise properly and help you. They also said I didn’t deserve your friendship and told Combeferre that I didn’t ask you before staging the meeting here.’

‘Because Combeferre does not approve of such behaviour and suffered a near-stroke when he heard about it. Now get on with it, captain,’ Combeferre nodded sharply and closed the door.

Grantaire bent down and picked a few brushes and paint tubes off the ground. A scraping sound behind him told him that Enjolras had put the table upright. He elected to ignore it for another minute, until he had gathered his supplies and put them into the empty boxes that had collected under the divan for once.

‘Listen, Grantaire, I feel like I owe you a confession,’ Enjolras leaned a few canvases on the wall, ‘I feel like I am trying to make this friendship work based on a lie and I want you to know the whole deal. If it is what keeps bringing the tension back between us, I feel like I will be able to clear it up a little bit.’

Grantaire motioned for him to sit on the divan, ‘Don’t mind, if I painted, do you?’

‘No, please do. Have you an idea as to what you’re going to paint?’ Enjolras still seemed cautious about what he said.

Grantaire decided that he could test the waters of honesty with his response and shook his head, ‘As of late, sudden inspiration hits a lot quicker when I am talking to you.’

He grabbed a large-scale pad and a pencil, tempted to voice his astonishment at how easy it was to find things once the studio was tidy. Pushing himself to settle, he perched himself on the windowsill, the same windowsill he had chased Courfeyrac away from earlier.

‘Go on then.’

Enjolras pulled his feet onto the divan and cleared his throat, ‘I told you my mother died a few years ago. My father did take me to concerts and everything, but he also installed his own version of parenting in me. I told you he is a landowner but I didn’t tell you that he insisted on raising me exactly to his standards. It included lessons in etiquette, dancing, conversation and economy. If I failed to live up to what he expected, I would end up locked in my room without electricity, food or drink. He taught me that I have to strive for perfection, no matter what I begin, and not to accept quitters or opposing arguments. I learned that people who didn’t agree with me were not worth my time, something that was aimed more at business partners or competitors, not so much at friends. ‘Ferre out-debated me when I treated him cold and hostile, leaving my argument in shreds. Courf slapped me across the face and yelled at me for an hour. I cannot begin to tell you how bad I feel every time my father’s upbringing comes out against my friends, as every apology will feel like an excuse for not being in control of myself at all times, this being one of the things that was anchored in my education. I hate myself for any loss of control I experience, which includes admitting to being wrong at times, accepting help or other opinions. I get angry, anxious and agitated, sometimes it is like a red blur casted over my vision and for a moment I just don’t know what I say or do. It’s a black-out of sorts and I do not know what I say to other people during these moments, and sometimes I apologise in advance to avoid hurting my friends. I hate myself for it, and all of my words are mere excuses.’

Enjolras outlined his left hand with the right. A few strands had slipped from his ponytail and veiled his face but Grantaire could see the blush on his high cheeks. His pencil had started to glide over the heavy cartridge paper on its own accord, drawing up the structure of a standing man, head bowed and hands bound behind his back. He added a tree to have a backdrop for the figure to be tied to.

‘I grew up believing that I would end up alone and isolated, if I wasn’t successful. My father allowed me to play the piano, he took me to concerts and pushed my talent until I was safely enrolled at the academy. He also told me that people would try and take that away from me and ditch me as soon as I wasn’t successful anymore.’

The pencil added wounds on a bare torso.

‘I want people to believe in my course, I get invested in it and forget about other opinions. In my mind, any opinion differing from mine is wrong and to be dismissed without doubt. I forget that words can hurt and they come out without filter. Just like Courf, except that his thing is more suggestive.’

The pencil added hair, a loincloth and a gag.

‘I don’t even know why I can’t break the pattern,’ Enjolras pressed the ball of his hand to his eyes, ‘there are so many warnings flagging up every time I get close to people, ‘Ferre and Courf can deal with it but others can’t. Some people I don’t care about but you, Grantaire, I can’t bear to hurt you more than I already have.’

‘Don’t promise what you can’t keep, Apollo,’ Grantaire looked up from his drawing, ‘both of us know that you are most likely to put your foot in your mouth every time I disagree with your raging, passionate speeches.’

Enjolras nodded, ‘I’m sorry, R, I really am. I care about all my friends and during this last month I found out that sometimes it takes you twenty-something years to find a person you just don’t want to lose.’

Grantaire added blood to the wounds and leaves to the tree, ‘Sounds like a love declaration, Apollo.’

‘Friendship declaration. Don’t assume –‘

‘You are doing it again,’ Grantaire attached words to the arrows sticking out of the wounds, ‘don’t you have a safeword for your rants?’

‘Pardon?’

‘A joke, Apollo, you know? Funny, sarcastic comment?’

‘No, R, it’s a brilliant idea! If my friends had an opportunity to stop me when I’m in danger of insulting someone who doesn’t deserve it,’ Enjolras jumped off the divan, crossed the room and hugged him, sending sketch pad and pencil scattering to the ground.

Grantaire felt the air being squeezed out of his lungs. Enjolras’ arms around him felt like a warm embrace, a ray of sunshine coming out on a dark, cold day, warming up the unsuspecting subject in a sudden motion. It took him by surprise, his only excuse for the way he let his head drop onto Enjolras’ shoulder as he slipped off the windowsill and into his arms. He felt the shudder taking over his body, and Enjolras tighten the embrace in response. His skin tingled with the intensity of the sudden touch and the way Enjolras allowed his hands to glide over his shoulders. There was no way Enjolras had not felt it but he graciously did not mention it for another minute, instead tightening the hug.

‘Are you cold?’ he asked eventually, burying his own head in the crook of Grantaire’s neck.

‘Napoleon,’ Grantaire mumbled in response, nestling his face into his soft curls.

‘What did you say?’

Grantaire snorted softly, ‘I knew you would get all antsy about even hearing that. It will definitely get you out of whatever rant you launch yourself into. You should consider it as your safeword.’

Enjolras stepped back, the expression in his eyes somewhere between disgust and amazement, ‘I don’t know whether you are a genius or a lunatic, right now.’

‘Go with the first one,’ Grantaire mumbled.

For a moment, they did merely grin at each other. Then, Enjolras pointed back to the divan.

‘Thank you for the posters, R. I looked through them and they are amazing but please don’t feel obliged to print them, if you –‘

‘I offered, Enjolras. Us butting heads will not keep me from doing my part to ensure your plans coming through,’ Grantaire pushed his hair back and picked his sketch pad up from where it lay on the ground.

‘Did you paint something useful?’

‘Art is never useful, Enjolras, you should know that,’ he put the pad up on the easel.

Enjolras followed him, taking a curious look at the lifelessly hanging figure Grantaire had drawn, ‘Saint Sebastian? R, this is amazing, you should really refine this one!’

He followed one of the lines with his finger, along the curve of the tree, onto the tormented body, the neck and finally the hair. Grantaire had put more effort into the facial traits than he did with other sketches.

‘Is that me?’

‘Maybe.’

‘You see me as what, a saint, a martyr?’

‘As a person who was hurt and mistreated, and suffered without fault. A person who went through hurtful processes and never lost faith, who still fights. A person who deserves to be seen for the distress they went through and the strength that makes them determined to reach their goal. You tell me whether I’m wrong to put traits similar to yours in this sketch,’ Grantaire smiled and pushed the pencil into his hair, ‘I will not change him.’

‘I’m not asking you to,’ Enjolras adjusted the pad on the easel with a smile tucked away in the corner of his mouth, ‘I’m interested.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on tumblr as edgy-fluffball


	18. Chapter Eighteen

‘R, get up,’ a sharp knock on the door had him bolt upright, ‘you are late and I am getting impatient with Bousset telling me you probably are hungover.’

‘What’s the matter? I’m awake,’ Grantaire ruffled his hair and rubbed his eyes, ‘why are you yelling?’

‘Because you are late to our bloody session,’ another knock on the door followed, ‘just for this I will demolish you.’

‘Baz, is that you?’

‘You bet your damn pants, it’s me. Now get your bloody kit and get going, how much did you drink last night?’

Grantaire fumbled for his phone, prepared to wipe empty bottles off the bedside table in the process. To his surprise, his phone was attached to its charger and the only bottle in his room was a single water bottle on his desk.

‘Nothing, apparently,’ he mumbled and grabbed a t-shirt from the foot of his bed, ‘what a surprise!’

‘All the better, then,’ Bahorel’s voice wandered down the hallway, ‘Bousset let me in, I’ll be in the kitchen.’

Grantaire threw his gloves, trainers and the water bottle in his bag, hopped in a pair of discarded trunks and combed through his hair with one hand, attempting to smooth them over his forehead until he gave up and let the curls spring free, ‘Make yourself at home.’

‘Oh, I will,’ a chair scraped over the wooded floor, ‘do you need coffee before we go? Jehan offered to bring some to the gym, otherwise. Sugar overdose and everything that you need included.’

‘That’s nice of them but I’ll survive,’ he went through the pockets of his trunks to find both his keys and a few coins, ‘Ready, Baz? I feel strong as ten men today!’

‘At least you got enough sleep for once,’ Joly left his room as he walked past, holding out a padded roll for him to grab, ‘you’ll need that afterwards. I can’t believe you printed the bloody posters last night. No wonder you needed a drink!’

‘Looking out for me again, sweetest friend?’ Grantaire kissed his cheek in passing, ‘Don’t strain yourself, this is your day of rest. No walking for at least two more hours, the posters will be distributed and delivered without your help.’

‘You’re sober,’ Joly looked at him in surprise, ‘I heard you come in late last night, you dropped your stuff in the kitchen and went to bed; I assumed you were drunk off your arse!’

‘Yes, and being sober feels awful,’ Grantaire grinned and pushed into the kitchen where Bahorel sat on one of their chairs, seemingly preoccupied with his phone.

‘Ready?’

‘As much as I can be on a Saturday morning,’ Grantaire nodded, ‘prepare to be defeated!’

For that, Bahorel chased him out of the flat, down the stairs and along the street until they reached the gym. Grantaire felt the air burn in his lungs, the crisp morning still tangible in the pale sunshine illuminating the brick buildings lining the streets. He leaned on a lamppost outside the gym, gasping for air and grinning up at his friend.

‘How are you still so fast with all that you do?’

‘I drink, Baz, not smoke. My lungs are not damaged,’ he opened the door and slipped into the changing room.

‘Stop the shittalking, get on with it,’ Bahorel grinned and patted his shoulder, ‘wrap your knuckles, we have work to do and points to prove!’

Grantaire saluted, got the tape from his bag and set up on one of the benches.

‘Jehan seemed a little peeved about us going for this session early, is everything okay with you two?’ he started warming up and jumped on the spot, waiting for Bahorel to finish his preparations.

‘You know them,’ Bahorel joined him, ‘everything’s a little dramatic. They didn’t enjoy seeing Montparnasse again, it reminded him of a few bad things happening to them years ago, and I can only do so much to lift their spirits.’

‘I know you’re doing your best,’ Grantaire cracked his neck, ‘Montparnasse has brought up bad memories in a lot of us.’

‘Right, you know him as well, don’t you?’ Bahorel tentatively swung at him, ‘Why is it that our most troubled souls are put through even more trouble with this bad-mannered vulture showing up? Neither you, nor Enjolras, nor Jehan deserve all this, and this duel will be even more straining for all of you because of this!’

‘Thank you for your concern,’ Grantaire retaliated.

‘I have to ask,’ Bahorel followed his words with a quick succession of blows, ‘because I know Jehan had a short fling with Montparnasse, a few years back before coming here. Did anything like that ever happen between the two of you?’

Grantaire did not see the gloved fist, he stood paralysed in his spot as Bahorel punched him in the face. He toppled over backwards and found himself sitting on the mat a second later.

‘Shit, I’m sorry! Your defense is so good, normally,’ Bahorel kneeled down next to him, ripping one of his gloves off to support his neck, ‘do you feel alright?’

‘Yes, no worries, you don’t hit that hard,’ Grantaire carefully shook his head to clear it, ‘sorry, you took me by surprise.’

‘I take it you have history with Montparnasse, then?’

‘Of course I do,’ Grantaire pushed himself back to his feet, ‘we basically grew up with each other around, our mothers are best friends to this day. There was no way to avoid him until he went off and consequently met Enjolras.’

‘You know what I mean with history,’ Bahorel followed, ‘Defenses up?’

‘Up and ready,’ Grantaire wiped his hair out of his eyes, ‘’Parnasse came back when we were seventeen. He had just started _Patron-Minette_ and was beaming with self-confidence and wore leather jackets and eyeliner to make him seem cooler. I had come out to my fellow classmates and was in a bad place because they did not respond the way I wanted them to. Montparnasse came round to our place to update my mother on what he was doing. She still loves him, although she despises rock music. He got invited for dinner, we went to my room and got talking, like old times, you know?’

He aimed at Bahorel’s torso. His friend blocked and retaliated, ‘What happened, did he -?’

‘He told me about his band mates, studio life and writing songs about whatever inspired him. I wanted to know stuff, obviously, I hadn’t seen him in years and we tended to get along well. I was curious and he was more than willing to tell me about his new rockstar life. He called me podge and smiled. I told him about being gay and out at school, he told me he was pan but couldn’t act on it publically because of the band life. It seemed only logical that we would experiment a little.’

Grantaire put force into his next punch, ‘Biggest mistake of my life. Experimenting a little turned into all the way in. Had to wash my mouth out with a whole bottle of Dad’s expensive Scotch afterwards.’

Bahorel followed the motion, ducking out of reach, ‘Is that when the daydrinking started?’

‘About the same time, yes.’

They exchanged another series of blows. Bahorel backed off a few steps before retaliating and assuming position again. Grantaire followed, fists lifted in defense and a grin pulling his face apart.

‘He was your first?’

Grantaire hit him hard in response, ‘Yes. And once again, I regret it every day. I haven’t met another person as much of an asshole as what Montparnasse turned into until now.’

‘How many boyfriends did you have after him?’ Bahorel waved the round off and went to get his water bottle, ‘It doesn’t seem like many, not like I would count.’

‘That’s because there weren’t many,’ Grantaire unscrewed his bottle, ‘There was Montparnasse and maybe two others but they never got what he took. I went out with Claquesous a few times, that was the closest I got to another intimate relationship.’

‘Claquesous as in _Patron-Minette_ Claquesous?’

‘Yes. We met when I moved into town to start at the academy, at first without knowing about our friend in common,’ Grantaire peered at his friend, trying to assess his reaction, ‘we are still in contact, actually. He came to a few of my showcases over the years and is the best example for the difference between Montparnasse and his bandmates. He’s an alright guy but it did not work out between us. To be honest, most of the times it’s my fault because I don’t seem to be able to…you know? Claquesous is one of the few who understood.’

‘Definitely not your fault, as far as I am concerned,’ Bahorel shook his head, ‘if anything, you are a cautious person because of an experience that changed you, nothing wrong with that.’

Grantaire nodded, feeling the iron string around his chest loosen a little. He found it hard to hear Bahorel taking down his argument so easily. Knowing himself to be a fuck-up seemed so much more comfortable and easier than to imagine himself as someone who had gone through a bad experience. His friends tried their best to convince him otherwise but the topic seldom arose. They had never addressed his lovelife. Grantaire could not think of a single instance when Bahorel had asked him something close to intimate. Those of his friends who were in relationships tended to be disconnected from everybody else, wrapped up in their own bliss as they were. Not, that Grantaire blamed them. Their happiness just seemed something that avoided him.

Bahorel took his gloves off, ’Joly would have given you the talk, if you ever brought anyone back to the flat, wouldn’t he?’

‘Definitely, that’s why I’m drinking alone,’ Grantaire knocked his head back to wipe a few strands of sweaty hair out of his eyes, ‘when’s Jehan going to be here?’

‘In time to build up your confidence before the pool. We all know how you feel about being in trunks,’ Bahorel started peeling off the tape around his knuckles, ‘and before you say a thing, you look good! Nothing is wrong with your body.’

‘We all know that’s a lie, Baz,’ Grantaire got his bag and started to change back into his clothes, ‘but I’ll do it, anyway. If Jehan can do it despite the dysphoria, so can I.’

‘Well said,’ Jehan slammed the door shut, striking a pose, ‘Enter, drama student with a chip on their shoulder.’

They walked over to meet them, bent over the ropes and pulled Bahorel in for a kiss that left him more than a little breathless. Grantaire threw his gloves at them and gagged for good measure.

‘You’re just jealous!’ Jehan broke off the kiss and walked over to pinch him, ‘You know I love you and you are my second best friend but I’m not sharing Baz, not even with you.’

‘Second best friend?’ Grantaire puffed up his cheeks in protest, ‘I am hurt.’

‘I’m their best friend, dumbo,’ Bahorel chipped in, ‘the whole dating your best friend thing? Totally works for us!’

They packed up and left for the pool, Jehan taking Bahorel’s hand to swing it between them. Grantaire trotted along a little behind them, quietly whistling under his breath.

***

‘I knew it,’ Grantaire squeezed the last drops of water out of his hair and shouldered his bag, ‘this is my biggest I-told-you-so-moment since Bousset thought he could actually do a somersault onto Joly’s bed and rolled into the old glass coffee table instead!’

‘Shut up,’ Bahorel laughed and slung an arm around Jehan’s shoulder, covering the new huge, dark hickey on their neck with his sleeve, ‘You did not have an I-told-you-so-moment, how was that an I-told-you-so-moment?’

‘We got thrown out of the pool. Again! All because you can’t keep your hands off each other for a few hours,’ Grantaire knew the grin on his face betrayed the tone of his voice but leaned into the act anyway, ‘have you no shame!’

‘Why, I could just eat him up,’ Jehan leaned into Bahorel’s arm, almost tripping him up for a second.

Grantaire rolled his eyes, wrapped a scarf around his neck and shoved his curls under his beanie, ‘I am never taking you two out again. There were children around, you weirdos!’

‘Oh come on, we weren’t that bad!’ Jehan turned around to face him.

‘Not that bad? You had your hand down Baz’ swimming trunks in the whirlpool next to the children’s pool,’ he tried his best to keep a straight face, failing horribly but pretending to be outraged for the sake of it, ‘they were staring at you and you only got to enjoy the moment for a little longer because the parents would rather get a lifeguard than break you up themselves!’

‘We are in love, what are you going to do?’

‘I might just tell Enjolras you are subjecting children to porn,’ Grantaire avoided the fist swung at him from Bahorel.

‘So the two of you made up?’

‘Sorry, did you just say they made out?’ Bahorel cackled and leaned onto him for a moment, ‘Teasing, R, teasing. Just to say that before you launch yourself into some kind of fit. I know you would never defile the temple and altar at which you pray and perish.’

Jehan sighed, a soft sound that made Grantaire’s skin tingle, ‘Do I rub off on you? That was perfectly poetic, my love.’

‘Too bad it was Baz who came up with it, otherwise you could have used it for your next play,’ Grantaire chose not to react to Bahorel who was batting his eyes at him and danced a few steps ahead, out of his reach.

‘Feel free to use it, both of you. I would love to hear the poetry and see the paintings based on that line.’

‘How did you come up with it, anyway? It is too aesthetic to fit you,’ Jehan grabbed his hand and pulled him closer, ‘cuddle me, I’m cold.’

‘My needy little paramour,’ Bahorel held his coat open for them to slip in, ‘use me as your personal radiator whenever you need it.’

‘I love you for the constant heat you give off,’ Jehan smiled, the corners of their mouth stretching all the way across their face, ‘the only reason I keep you around.’

Bahorel dropped a few kisses on their scalp and held them close. Grantaire felt a wistful smile tug at his mouth as he shoved his hands into his pockets. Something about Bahorel’s comment had hit too close to home. He thought of the painting in Lamarque’s office and several sketches in his notebook, all of them linked to late night music sessions, a random thought or the face that occupied most of his figure studies. The recent idea for _St Sebastian Reborn_ , waiting to be finished in his studio, had haunted him during the early hours of the night, keeping him out of his bed and sleep at bay. He thought of shared evenings and how he craved the serenity it had meant for him to listen to Enjolras play, thoughts resting and pencil working without further prompt. It had been an insight into the intimacy music was able to convey and he felt like he lost its impact, almost as if he could no longer remember what it had felt like during that first night that he had spent drunk and tired outside of Enjolras’ music room.

‘Hey R, are you still there?’ Jehan held one hand out for him to take, an inquiring look in their eyes, ‘You seemed a little away with the fairies there, darling.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Grantaire smiled at them, quickly catching up with his two friends, ‘I’m alright, thanks for the concern though. My thoughts wandered off to find a happy place.’

‘As long as it is a happy place and not the bottom of a bottle,’ their concerned expression softened a moment later as Grantaire took their hand and allowed himself to be dragged forward.

They walked down the street, past one of the old bookshops all of them frequented, one that had sheet music as well as encyclopaedias on art, drama and literature, Jehan holding hands with both of them and tagging along a little behind them which led to Bahorel and Grantaire pulling them forward every so often when they spotted something in a shop window that seemed too pretty to resist it. Bahorel tried to bribe them with kisses and cuddles to move forward but eventually, he had to surrender to a snuggly blanket that Jehan insisted on checking out. They stepped into the shop for three minutes and came out with the blanket which had passed a snuggle test, a bag of scented wax chips and a bathbomb.

‘Look at this,’ they held the bathbomb out to Grantaire, ‘it says _Sexbomb_ on the box. I got it for Baz!’

Grantaire snorted out a laugh and threw his friend a suggestive look for want of the air to whistle through his teeth. He could have sworn that Bahorel was blushing under his scruffy beard and the scarf he had pulled up to protect his face from a sniping cold wind that had started to blow up from the river. Again, a wave of sad melancholy threatened to drown him momentarily as he watched his friends sway in a hug that Jehan had stolen from their boyfriend, snuggling into the warmth Bahorel’s coat provided them with. Bahorel smiled fondly, dropping another set of kisses onto their nose, temple, forehead and eventually, top of their head.

‘Stop being mushy,’ he croaked out, lightly kicking Bahorel, ‘You guys really are turning into the most embarrassing thing I have seen all week. Especially you, Baz, you used to be cool! Look at what one relationship has turned you into, it’s almost like Jehan turned you into some kind of love robot. You don’t even pay attention to your surroundings anymore.’

‘Why would I?’ Bahorel was now staring into Jehan’s eyes, a dopey smile stretched across his face, ‘I have my world mapped out right in front of me. Also, quit whining, I sacrificed a lie in with my paramour for you this morning!’

A moment later, he walked into a light post.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

‘Hello Grantaire. I thought I might find you here,’ Combeferre entered his studio after knocking on the door he had propped open with an issue of the _Oxford English Dictionary_ , the only book in his possession heavy enough to hold the door’s weight.

‘Good evening, Combeferre, how can I be of service?’

His visitor hovered near where he had put still wet watercolours on the ground, eyeing them for a moment before carefully stepping around them. He wore a scarf that looked too colourful and lumpy to be his own or even a store bought one. Given that Combeferre seemed not to care whether he left the house with mismatched socks and a dress shirt, it seemed more likely that Courfeyrac had bundled him up in it before he ran off to his first lecture of the day. Combeferre stepped closer to the divan, set his seemingly heavy bag down and rested a parcel against the armrest that Grantaire recognised as some of his rolled up posters.

‘I’m on advertising duty,’ Combeferre explained, ‘these are the last posters to go up.’

‘All set up for the concert then?’ Grantaire moved a few books with his foot, ‘I saw Courf run around with some charity tins yesterday.’

‘Almost,’ Combeferre sighed and took his glasses off to wipe the lenses, ‘that’s what I was coming to talk to you about. We need someone to sell the last tickets on Friday. Éponine has sold the contingent we gave her for the coffee shop, Cosette sold huge amounts at the academy shop and the tickets we put online are gone as well. We have some tickets left over to sell at the door. I can’t ask Courf to do that, he would turn into even more of a bouncing ball, Jehan would mean Baz and we need him to take care of the electrics and make sure everything’s running smoothly.’

‘You could ask Feuilly or Joly, if you put a chair out,’ Grantaire stacked a few colour boxes together and set them on the window sill, ‘keep Bousset away from the table. Just a tip.’

‘You are right, I suppose,’ Combeferre cleared his throat and put his glasses back on his nose, ‘no chance you could be there to do it?’

Grantaire turned his back on him, facing the wall, ‘I won’t be there.’

‘Come on, a few minutes earlier –‘

‘Ferre, you misunderstand me. I will not be there on Friday, I have no intention to show up to witness another opportunity for Montparnasse to stage himself and drag Enjolras down. I cannot watch that, I have come too far to ruin my progress with one event that is set to be doomed from the start. Enjolras knows that I was up to helping out with the posters but he never expected me to be there.’

He could feel Combeferre’s look burn in his neck, ‘You might have the wrong impression here. Enjolras relied on your support with the poster but I think he would profit from you being there for the duel. He can use whatever encouragement you are able to provide, Friday is going to go down as a battle in academy history.’

‘I am aware of that, Combeferre, believe me,’ Grantaire allowed his shoulders to sag a little, ‘but I simply cannot force myself to endure it – and it would be nothing else for me.’

‘Well then, your decision. I’ll let Enjolras know you won’t be there, the two of you would probably go at each other’s throats, given your history.’

‘Thank you. You are probably right. I doubt Enjolras and I would see eye to eye on my reasons not to attend. You can tell him I’ll donate to the charity, he can name any amount of money.’

‘He’ll be pleased to hear that,’ Combeferre got back up, ‘well, I better get going and put some of the posters up around town. Will you help with the seating arrangements tonight?’

‘Stacking chairs and putting them in rows? Sure, I should be able to drop by after my shift. Should I bring anything?’

‘Gloves, if your hands are too dainty,’ Combeferre grabbed the posters, ‘otherwise, you’ll be okay. For how long can you help out?’

‘Starting from around seven to half past eight?’

‘Will do,’ Combeferre shrugged, ‘I’m not vouching for Enjolras though. He might end up texting or phoning you after I talk to him, just warning you.’

‘I’ll be prepared,’ Grantaire threw him a salute and turned back around to his easel.

He had sorted through the canvases gathering dust in one corner when his phone had buzzed underneath the sink where it had slid to when he had thrown his bag on the ground after his art history lecture. The text had been short enough, reminding him of a date and asking for a get-together later. He had agreed, thrown his phone back onto the table and gone back to work.

Grantaire had tried to come up with a system to catalogue his paintings but ended up stacking them according to size after several attempts to work out something that would get him to find a specific picture faster. It took him an hour to realise that it would be too difficult to put them back in their place.

By the time he had to leave for the museum, he was ready to give up on the whole idea. Cursing, he grabbed the bag he had brought to the studio and set off. For a brief moment, he contemplated attempting to catch the bus but scrapped the idea immediately since he only ever moved between the academy, the lecture halls and the museum, with no real distance to cover in between.

He stormed into the staff changing room with ten minutes to spare, put on his livery, the walkie-talkie in his belt and the intercom in his ear. After a quick check, he could leave to attend to his post in the _Early Modern Art_ wing, situated between Manet and Courbet where he could spend some time sketching the old masters during the quieter moments. That was, whenever he did not answer questions about the pictures, exhibition, artists or even his own job. Every now and then, an older visitor expressed their interest in how he had gotten the job but his explanation that he studied art at the academy and the job was tied to his degree to gain work experience satisfied the least.

His sketchbook, the one he kept especially for his shifts at the museum, was filled with the impressions of the people walking past his chair, wearing expressions of awe, wonder and sometimes boredom, mostly to be spotted on the faces of younger children or teenagers. He drew their faces, their figures, their postures. He drew frames and the pictures on the wall, one after the other. They only ever differed in era and epoch whenever he had done a shift in another wing of the museum.

The only time he had to get up for a longer time proved to be when a young boy lost his parents and wandered around without aim around the hall for a few minutes before Grantaire caught him, asked about his parents and placed the call at the information desk. The announcement came seconds later, asking for little Jean’s parents to meet them in Room 22, French masters. He let Jean draw in his sketchbook until his parents came to pick him up, thanking him for looking after the boy. When they scolded him for running off, Grantaire offered for him to keep the page he had scribbled on to cheer him up. The backside of Jean’s drawing displayed a sketch of one of the paintings in the hall, a study of a group portrait. He scribbled a short note saying _Keep practising!_ next to it and handed it to him.

Jean and his parents went on to look at the next room. And Grantaire got back to work, reminding a few teenagers not to touch the paintings and to keep away from the statues. Some of them laughed at him so Grantaire shrugged and turned to an elderly lady who waved at him with the map of the exhibition rooms. A moment later, the warning signal went off and the teenagers scurried out of the room, trying to look inconspicuous.

‘These young people,’ the old lady shook her head, ‘no respect or manners!’

‘At least they have seen a museum from the inside,’ Grantaire smiled weakly, ‘to see the Impressionists and the van Goghs you will have to go to Room 26. Through here and the enclosing wing. The walls will be painted green over there.’

‘Thank you, young man,’ she squeezed his arm a little too tight and smiled at him with a bat of her eyes before turning around to leave, ‘my day is brightening up already.’

Grantaire saw her off, shaking his head. The older patrons with their small flirts did a lot to make his shifts easier on days when everything else was crushing down. Their joy about visiting the museum, getting to see the paintings and enjoy their time in town fuelled him for a little longer after his shift, when the museum was closed for the night, the cleaning staff went through the halls and Grantaire gathered his things to set off towards the academy’s concert hall.

Situated in another Georgian building with tall windows and arches, the academy’s concert hall was just as impressive as the accommodations. The concert hall was the academy’s pride and joy, the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling glimmered golden and were always polished to blind people coming in, their light being reflected from the ceiling high mirrors.

Grantaire entered through the main entrance, his bag slung over his shoulder and one hand stuffed into his pocket. His steps were muffled by the thick, heavy carpets laid out over the stairs leading to the auditoriums on the first floor. He could hear noise from upstairs and made to climb up the stairs, whistling under his breath.

‘Grantaire?’ Combeferre’s unruly mop of hair poked out over the handrail, ‘Is that you? We are in the big auditorium.’

‘Coming,’ Grantaire went on to the next landing and dumped his bag in the upper circle’s cloak room.

Bahorel was lugging around stacks of chairs, stopping every few steps for Marius and Courfeyrac to take one off the top. Jehan and Bousset were polishing the grand pianos on the stage, rubbing away any finger prints and specks of dust until the lacquered black wood shone under the stagelights that Joly was testing when he entered the room.

‘Okay, R,’ Combeferre pushed his glasses up his nose and waved at him with a clipboard, ‘help Bahorel and Courf with the chairs. Straight rows, chair to chair. Impeccable order, understood?’

‘Yes, sir,‘ Grantaire saluted and clapped Bahorel on the back, ‘you alright, mate?’

‘I’ve been carrying chairs up the stairs because the elevator broke. Nice of you to show up,’ Bahorel handed him a stack of five chairs, ‘the first ones for the boxes. Combeferre said to give the most comfortable ones to the judges. Cosette has got the signs and labels.’

‘To make sure Javert gets the comfiest,’ Jehan shouted from the stage, ‘The lighting is perfect, Joly. Can you do the spotlights next?’

Their hair lit up in the clearest shades of reds a moment later. Grantaire stopped under the doorway and looked back as Bahorel whistled and dropped a few chairs onto the floor, sending them clattering into the ones Courfeyrac had put up.

‘Eyes to the front, soldier,’ Jehan threw him a cocky look and flaunted their sparkly shoes around the stage, ‘or rather, on the task at hand.’

‘Tease!’ Bahorel’s grunt was clearly audible around the hall as he got back to work.

Grantaire got around to setting the judge’s box up with tables and chairs. Cosette joined him to put up some of the name tags she had printed off.

‘Are you okay? Combeferre mentioned you won’t be here on Friday?’

‘I just don’t feel well with the whole situation panning out as it is,’ Grantaire set down the last chair in the row for her to lable it _Valjean_ , “I mean, how could your father just agree to do this?’

‘Javert agreed as well, don’t forget that,’ Cosette put an arm around his waist and rubbed his back, ‘they are impartial. If Montparnasse tries anything, cheats or even looks at Enjolras the wrong way, they will step in. Their verdict, the decision they are going to make, will be based on the facts and nothing else. Enjolras messes up, they will take that into account. Montparnasse messes up, they’ll consider it. They are the most impartial people we know and they will do a great job. Don’t worry, R. There is no way he could cheat during a musical duel.’

‘He’ll find a way,’ Grantaire felt his voice break in his throat, shaky and small as it was, ‘I know it, he will find a way and if he can’t win he will hurt him.’

‘Hey, R,’ Cosette forced him to meet her eyes, slim hand like a clamp around his jaw, ‘You don’t get to say that. Enjolras is a grown up. He agreed to it and he will get through this, plus he will raise money for charity with it. In his book, that’s even more important than defeating Montparnasse. I doubt Montparnasse can do anything that ruins that.’

She smiled at him, face glowing with the excitement the whole event seemed to prompt in her. It made him feel uneasy, knowing that she did not believe Montparnasse could harm the procedures in any way. At the same time, she calmed him down with the slow rubs on his back and the ever present, soft smile on her lips.

‘Hey Enjolras, do you want to test the piano?’ Jehan waved at the corner of the room under the judge’s box, ‘do you get to pick your favourite piano?’

‘Probably. We will be sitting at the grand pianos and not move from the stools whilst the other is playing,’ Enjolras’ voice echoed in the empty auditorium and Enjolras stepped into the light of the chandeliers, hair unruly and loose, spilling over his shoulders.

Grantaire watched as he skipped towards the stage, as if on springs. His hair slipped out from behind his ears where he had tugged it before as he slid onto the stool and settled in front of the piano. He wiped it out of his eyes with a rushed movement and set his hands down on the keys. An eerie silence fell over the auditorium as every single one of them stopped working to watch Enjolras on stage.

The first soft notes of a wistful melody drifted through the room, dancing under the high ceilings, mixing with the warm light of hundreds of lightbulbs and enveloping them in a blanket of comfort. It reminded Grantaire of summer holidays in France, picnics and bike tours with his father, of late nights watching movies and the poignant pain of scraped knees. It reminded him of lavender fields, of citrus trees and the faint note of salt on a breeze coming from the sea. _Apres Un Reve_ , the piece was called, written by Gabriel Fauré, a composer as much as teacher who had handed his knowledge down from one generation of music students to the next. Grantaire leaned forward slightly, allowing his arms to rest on the rail around the box. He watched Enjolras and the way his torso swayed slightly to the rhythm of the melody. The difference between the music room and the concert hall was stunning as the slight echo intensified the sound of the grand piano. His bearing had changed, his touch to the keys almost reverent.

For Grantaire it seemed without doubt to be a privilege to hear and see Enjolras play before the duel. The tension that had made him stand upright as if impaled bled out of his body, leaving through his fingertips and turning into music.

‘I have heard him so often and it still makes me stop and wonder,’ Cosette stood next to him, her eyes swimming slightly.

Grantaire put an arm around her shoulder, offering her some comfort which she accepted gladly, leaning into the half hug. They watched together, tied by her words that had told him one thing; Cosette was not left cold by Enjolras’ play either and it warmed him a little. Knowing that Enjolras’ music made others feel similar to what he experienced made it easier for him to accept the tears stinging in his eyes.

A slim hand felt for his and squeezed it carefully, ‘His playing is beautiful, isn’t it? He really has a talent for it, it’s almost like one of the muses come back.’

‘Not the muses,’ Grantaire shook his head slowly, ‘Apollo himself came back to life in his form.’

Cosette sniffed, fumbling for a tissue, ‘Sorry, that song – when Enjolras plays I always start crying. And I love what you said about him. He needs people who remind him that he is a very good pianist and that his friends are there to support him. Oh Grantaire, I am so relieved you guys became friends and everybody just gets along.’

He did not point out the fall out Enjolras and he had had. He did not mention how often the goblin hunched in one corner of his mind that told him that all the people close to him would eventually leave him. He did not tell her that he did not plan on attending the concert because he could not bear watching Montparnasse potentially win and destroy the picture-perfect illusion he had built around Enjolras.

‘I love this piece, by the way,’ Cosette whispered, turning her head towards him slightly, ‘Fauré really knew how to write music. Although, it might just be Enjolras playing his pieces.’

Grantaire had to conceal a small laugh, ‘Yes, it might just be that.’

Enjolras concluded the short piece, one serene note after the other, giving every single one the right emphasis and dynamic. He ended on a dark and solemn ritardando that made Cosette whisper, ‘Goosebumps.’

A single set of hands applauded him. Grantaire watched as Enjolras turned around, his face darkening once he turned half-way round, facing the door.

‘That’s my cue, I’m afraid,’ Grantaire kissed Cosette’s cheek, ‘Enjolras will kill my evening plans otherwise.’

‘R, have you got a date?’

He left the box without a look back or giving her an answer, sprinting down the set of stairs to reach the stalls in time to catch Enjolras before he could address Claquesous who leaned in the door frame, shrouded in the shadows of the boxes above. Once he had stopped clapping he had crossed his arms over his chest and grinned at the perplexed faces looking on.

‘What are you doing here, Claquesous?’ Enjolras stopped a few metres away from him, throwing a quick look back at Grantaire, ‘R? I didn’t see you come in.’

‘Judges’ box. They have it nice and comfy now. And Claquesous is here because of me.’

‘You?’

‘Yes. We’re going out for drinks,’ Grantaire pushed past Enjolras with a smile, ‘That’s why I told Combeferre I wouldn’t be able to stay the whole evening.’

‘Is that also why you won’t come to the concert? Because of personal interest and bias?’

‘Oh Enjolras,’ Claquesous’ rough voice, as charming and pleasant as water running over sandpaper, and like the effects of chili rubbed into a wound, warm and painful at the same time, an underlying danger caught in the edges of his words, got all their attention, ‘there is no way Grantaire would ever stray from your side. The loyal subject he makes himself to be. Truth be told, we are friends. Nothing more, nothing less, so don’t get your knickers in a twist.’

He slapped Enjolras on the back, threw his other arm around Grantaire’s shoulders and leaned forward. His long hair fell into his face, covering most parts of it like a mask. Only his glimmering eyes seemed to burn through it, fixing them with a smirk.

‘Are you ready to go, Sous?’ Grantaire left his friends a muted smile before tagging along behind him.

Claquesous handed him a small parcel when they left the building and stepped into the cool, dark night, ‘I walked past this small shop, saw this and got it for you.’

Grantaire unwrapped the parcel whilst walking, folded the paper neatly to put it in his pocket and looked at what he held in his hands. For a moment, it seemed like a ball of wool. It was soft and fit in his hand without problems.

‘It’s one of these woollen hats you wear,’ Claquesous explained and pointed at it, ‘with cat ears and a small pocket.’

‘A beanie with cat ears and a pocket? Thank you, Sou, it looks amazing,’ he pulled it over his head and tried the small pocket underneath the right cat ear, ‘look, it fits my pencil!’

Claquesous nodded solemnly and opened a door. Grantaire recognised the bar, they had met up there a few times before, whenever _Patron-Minette_ were in town. He followed Claquesous into one of the darker corners but did not take the new beanie off. His friend took his leather jacket off and slid into the booth.

‘Drinks?’

‘I’ll get them,’ Grantaire nodded, ‘first one’s mine, that means you get to pay for the really expensive ones later.’

‘Perks of being a rockstar.’

Claquesous needed a few drinks to loosen up, even more than Grantaire, a connection they had made on one of their early failed dating attempts. It had been Claquesous whose giggling expression of ‘We are both perfectly fucked up’ had prompted them to realise that they would not be the best couple. Friendship, they had agreed, would be the better alternative for both of them since they tried to leave a person behind by distracting themselves with a friend of that person.

It had been the only well thought out decision Grantaire had made in years.

‘You are overthinking,’ Claquesous sniffed, ‘I can it see it at the tip of your nose. Stop it, it’s annoying!’

Grantaire set down the glasses and sat down heavily. The chair creaked under his weight, he grabbed one of the beers he had gotten them and swallowed down a few gulps before meeting Claquesous’ eyes again. His friend shook his head at him.

‘Out with it, what’s going on? Even Montparnasse can’t annoy you so much that you look like death warmed over.’

‘Thank you for the boost of confidence,’ Grantaire watched him down the beer, ‘I’m not going to the duel.’

‘You’re what?’ Claquesous leaned forward, wiping his hair out of his eyes with one quick flick of his hand to look at him with the intensity of the full moon, ‘I do hope you’re taking the piss. You not there? That is cruel!’

‘I do not want to encourage Montparnasse any further. He will be bad enough to deal with as it is, I don’t need to be there to add fuel to the fire.’

‘Goddamit, I hope you know that you’re abandoning Enjolras by doing so. Do you want him to face Montparnasse on his own?’

‘He has his friends.’

‘Yes, and none of them sees ‘Parnasse as you do. He is problematic, I know that, I tour with the guy. You need to take care of this, not only of yourself but also Enjolras. Fucking hell, R, you make me swear and spit sensible shit at you as of late!’

‘What had you make me do?’

‘I don’t know, be there for your friend? Enjolras deserves you to be there for him, as far as I can judge, from both Montparnasse’s stories and the brief encounter we had.’

Grantaire sat back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, ‘You are saying I should be there? With Montparnasse?’

‘With Enjolras,’ Claquesous corrected, ‘Montparnasse doesn’t need you, he is actually better off on his own. All the confidence and obnoxiousness, the best premises for a rockstar. Enjolras, however, needs his friends there with him to provide support and backing.’

He drained his beer, ‘I’ll get the next round and leave you to reflect on that for a moment. Another one for you?’

‘Yeah, thank you,’ Grantaire stretched and rubbed his temples, ‘when did you turn into a philosopher, mate?’

‘When your decisions started getting worse than ever. I’ll order some brandy as well.’

He went over to the bar and came back with two pints and a bottle of brandy, ‘I forwent the glasses. Cheers, mate!’

Grantaire took the bottle from his hands, uncorked it and took a big swig. His friend watched him closely, a grin tugging at his lips.

‘Well then, boozer, I want for me to wake up with a headache tomorrow and you to forget you ever even considered not going to that bloody musical duel. Chug in three, two, one –‘

***

He woke up with a start, struggling against the weight on his chest that held him down. It felt like a ton, enough to root him to his mattress and constrict his breathing a little.

‘Get off me,’ he flailed about a little, brushing his arm over his chest.

He was met with soft fur.

‘What the hell?’

‘Oh shut up, Grantaire.’

‘Sous?’

‘Yes?’

‘Why are you here?’

‘You didn’t want to be left alone with Adonis.’

‘Adonis?’

‘The cat, mate.’

‘Cat?’

He pushed himself up, feeling Claquesous’ head slip off his chest. They lay sprawled out across his bed with his friend’s head pillowed on his shoulder and one of his arms over his hip. And then he heard the meowing, coming from the foot of his bed.

‘What the –‘

‘Hey, you scare him,’ Claquesous lifted his head and hit him in the side.

The door swung open and Jehan poked their head in, ‘There you are. Hi ‘Sous, sleep well?’

‘’M hungover,’ the growling answer came from somewhere buried under a pillow that Claquesous had pulled over his head, ‘go away.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Jehan pulled the blanket off them, ignoring Grantaire’s indignant squeak as he dove to cover the fact that he wore nothing but his boxer shorts, ‘I need the comfort and warmth of this blanket right now, Baz had to go out.’

‘Where’d he go?’ Grantaire wiped at his unruly hair.

‘To get a litterbox and food, obviously,’ Jehan sat down on his lap, ‘oh man, I just hope we deciphered your drunken messages correctly.’

They shoved their phone in his face and pointed to a string of messages, sent after midnight. Half of them were a random mix of numbers, letters and punctuation. The others spelt ‘kittn ina boxes out,’ ‘Gota cat,’ ‘ma be a dad’ and ‘helpme.’

‘Oh god,’ Grantaire buried his face in his hands, ‘I took a cat home?’

‘Not only that, you managed to sneak him past Joly.’

‘Are we sure it’s a he?’ Grantaire looked over to where a cream coloured kitten sat snuggled into one of his jumpers.

‘Joly checked.’

‘Didn’t you just say –‘

‘Who do you think let him out this morning? He can access the tree behind the house from your window, by the way,’ Jehan patted his head, ‘you should still check whether he is chipped.’

‘Yeah, I will do that,’ Grantaire ruffled their hair, ‘thank you, Jehan. I owe you one.’

‘Are you serious?’ Joly appeared in the door, arms crossed over his chest, chin jutted forward, ‘you adopted a cat, drunk-named it Adonis and smuggled it past us into your room only for it to wake us up meowing and Jehan is the one who gets an IOU?’

‘He loves me more than you,’ they singsonged, jumping off Grantaire’s lap to dance through the room, ‘I knew it, they love me more than you!’

Claquesous groaned into his pillow, ‘Why are they so goddamn energised in the morning, I can’t deal with this.’

Grantaire gave him a pat on the back before turning back around, ‘Why did I call him Adonis?’

Jehan and Joly had to leave the room in an attempt to muffle their laughter but he still managed to understand something resembling ‘blond and beautiful.’


	20. Chapter Twenty

Adonis proved to be unchipped and unregistered as well as cuddly when he took him to the closest veterinary clinic the next day. The vet who checked the kitten over smiled and offered to vaccinate him on the spot.

‘Would you like him to be chipped and registered, we could do that in just a few minutes,’ the vet turned around from her desk where she had given the kitten belly rubs.

Adonis stretched his tiny legs, flounced across the desk and settled in Grantaire’s lap with a hop, rubbing his head against his side. He petted the cat, having found that the sound calmed him down.

‘Do you think we could do that?’

‘Sure, have you given him a name yet?’

‘Adonis,’ Grantaire blushed.

‘A beautiful name for a handsome young man,’ she handed him a form, ‘here you go, we are nothing more than a few details and your signature away from him being yours for good.’

Grantaire filled his information in, handed her the form back and scratched Adonis behind his ears. The kitten purred into his palm, his little tongue poked out every now and then to press its raspy surface against his fingertips.

‘There are a few more things you will need to sort over time but for now you are free to take him home,’ the vet petted Adonis’ head, cooing over him for a moment before pulling back slightly.

Grantaire scooped Adonis up, the kitten fit into his hand perfectly and curled up, winding his tail around his wrist, ‘Let’s get you home then, young man.’

Jehan and Bahorel had bought not only a litterbox and cat food but an additional cat bed, toys and a comfortable blanket. He had paid them back but they insisted that Adonis be spoilt by his uncles, aunts and family from the first day onward.

‘There you are, mon ami,’ Courfeyrac greeted him at the door, ‘I’m just heading out, I hope you are alright? Jehan mentioned something about a hangover yesterday.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Grantaire grinned at him, ‘nothing I wouldn’t have experienced before. Are you heading out?’

‘Ferre asked me to check the venue again before tonight. He is anxious something might go wrong, if none of us shows up once an hour to make sure the chairs are still there.’

‘Have fun guarding the chairs, then!’

Grantaire dropped Adonis off in the flat and put some food out for him. Bousset peeked out of his room and smiled, promising to look after the kitten whilst he was working on his paper.

‘What are you going to do now? Adonis is officially yours, which deserves some kind of commemoration. Not many of us would go out for drinks and come back plastered and with adopted children.’

‘I will adopt as many strays and children as I can,’ Grantaire winked at him, ‘it’s going to be one huge family. As for today, I have my paintings to attend to and you don’t have the time to do anything tonight. You will be preoccupied with the duel.’

He scratched Adonis’ head and cooed a little bit over him before turning to the door. With his headache held at bay with pain killers and his sketches of his St Sebastian ready to be transferred onto canvas, he set out for his studio.

The stairs creaked under his steps, as he made his way from landing to landing. He hummed a tune under his breath, the melody somewhat related to one he had heard in the waiting room of the veterinary clinic. The academy was quiet, most students were in their studios, in lectures or with tutors. He enjoyed the freedom Lafayette granted him in their tutorials, asking him to drop by every now and then to update him about his progress and clear any questions he might have come up with. Lafayette welcomed the teas and biscuits Grantaire sometimes brought along, too. It was refreshing to sit with his professor in companionable silence from time to time. He wondered whether other students felt similarly, whether they started sessions with the newest gossip around the academy, whether their tutors helped them find jobs in their field like Lafayette helped him, despite all of his eccentricities.

A hand clasped around his arm and pulled him into the music corridor, ‘In here, now!’

It took him a moment to realise what happened, then he instantly wished he had covered up the scared shriek that he had emitted.

Enjolras’s voice sounded harsh, his hot breath pushing against his neck. Grantaire noted the distress in his behaviour, as he was being dragged down the hallway. The hand that wasn’t holding on to his arm shook violently, a tremor that became more apparent when Enjolras failed to grab the door handle of his music room door. His eyes were slightly bloodshot, and wild in their expression.

‘Are you alright?’ he could not ban the cautiousness from his voice, ‘You seem agitated, do you need to sit down for a moment? What are you even doing here, shouldn’t you be at the auditorium and practise a last time?’

Enjolras looked down at the suit he was wearing and found the tie on his piano, ‘Yeah, no, that has to wait. I need to show you something.’

Grantaire felt himself being pressed into the armchair. A still steaming cup of tea sat on the sidetable, half-full and slightly off on its saucer.

‘Did you really wait here to check whenever someone came up or down the stairs?’

Enjolras seemed too preoccupied with a book to answer him. He browsed it, turning pages as he went, walking up and down in the space between piano and armchair.

‘What is that, R?’ a piece of paper was shoved in his face, ‘I wanted to read a little, calm down before tonight and what do I find, in my favourite book, no less?’

Grantaire felt the grin slip off his lips as he took the sketch Enjolras held out of his hand. He remembered drawing it, of course he did. He never forgot his pictures. What he had forgotten was that he had left this particular sketch in a book at Enjolras’ flat when he had been over for dinner. The sketch of the three friends lounging on the sofa, Courfeyrac laughing, Combeferre whispering in his ear. And Enjolras, propped up next to them, an elbow pressed into a cushion, his hand dangling a little whilst he played with a loose strand of his hair, twirling it around one finger.

‘You found it. I can’t even remember which book I put it in, to be honest,’ Grantaire tried to play it off but his voice would not follow his command.

‘ _Le Vieux Cordelier_ ,’ Enjolras raked his fingers through his hair, ‘but that’s not the issue here. Why did you leave it there?’

‘If I remember correctly, you were talking to me. I just left it there, I don’t even remember why. The book was there, I kind of wanted to hide it and it seemed a good idea at the time.’

‘Hide it?’ Enjolras’ mouth fell open, ‘Why would you hide this? It’s amazing, as if you stopped time there for a moment to shine a light on our evening. When I found this, I could not comprehend how real it looked. You captured Courf’s ridiculous laughing expression just right and it almost seems like Ferre is judging him just a tiny bit.’

‘He always is.’

Enjolras laughed, sounding bubblier than ever before. When Grantaire looked up to meet his eyes, they were shining with tears.

‘Are you alright?’

Enjolras wrung his hands for a moment, before all but falling to the ground next to the armchair, ‘I’m scared, R. I am actually scared of what might happen tonight, Montparnasse got me to crack.’

Grantaire closed his mouth, his words dying on the tip of his tongue. It occurred to him that he would not be of help if he merely pointed out that Enjolras had nothing to fear. The quick comment that Enjolras seemed a little too dramatic or frantic got stuck in his throat, his lips coming as far as forming the first syllable before he stopped himself.

Enjolras looked broken, his eyes flitting around the room, ‘I thought I could just show up there and play a little but he got to me, he got in my head and now I second guess everything.’

‘You are brilliant, Enjolras and your play is amazing. If I have to repeat it a thousand times, I will. Montparnasse might dream of grandeur but you reach that without so much as trying, you possess a grace natural to so few, something that is both a gift and a curse in the course of moments as it is but rises and soars high above anybody else. You have to promise me that you believe in yourself! It is the only way you can make sure Montparnasse does not triumph over you, show him that you are stronger and more capable than he could ever have dreamed!’

He took Enjolras’ hand for a moment and squeezed it.

‘Why won’t you come, R?’ the question took him by surprise, he tried to avoid meeting his eyes but could not hold up for long, ‘Would it be so bad?’

‘Yes. It would be the same as ripping my heart out of my chest and stomping on it. Don’t ask me to come, please. You have everybody else there to support you, why would you need me? We fight whenever we actually get together and it seems about the only thing we are capable of by now.’

‘Everybody else isn’t the person who listened to me play at night, who made it easier to fight through it until now. I am not saying that I need you there but you would be of great support for me. You are my friend, R, I am glad to call you that and tonight might just be the worst night of my life.’

‘I am sorry, Enjolras, I truly am. But I cannot comply with your wish, I simply cannot bear it. I can’t risk my own health,’ Grantaire sighed and raked his fingers through his hair, ‘It took me long enough to recover from the time I spent with Montparnasse in my teens. He is venomous, sucks the life right out of you.’

‘You think I don’t know that?’ Enjolras leaned back, eyes shimmering a little, ‘god, it’s times like this that I long for a smoke.’

‘You smoke?’

‘Smoked,’ he cocked his head to the side, ‘I stopped when I moved in with Courf and Ferre, they didn’t allow me to continue.’

‘Good of them, otherwise I would have taken on that job,’ Grantaire tried to make himself taller and impressive.

‘Sure you would,’ Enjolras reached up from the ground, ‘just don’t forget, you’re tiny.’

‘I am not tiny.’

‘You are smaller than me. You are tiny,’ Enjolras grinned up at him, ‘I rest my case.’

Grantaire rolled his eyes, ‘I really don’t know why you are in charge of a debate society, your arguments are horrendous.’

‘Insulting my work will not help you,’ Enjolras pushed himself to his feet, ‘well, I should better head off soon, if I want to have a quick play through before we start. Thank you for the drawing, R.’

‘See you tomorrow? I could come by after my shift.’

‘Where do you work?’

‘The museum. Lafayette got me a job a few months back, it’s work experience I wouldn’t get otherwise. Is Lamarque doing something like that?’

‘Courf is an usher in the theatre; I could probably get a job there as well but I don’t have the time, as it is. Isn’t Jehan working in costumes?’

‘They are wherever they are needed,’ Grantaire got up, ‘Break a leg, Apollo.’

He left the room with a small wave directed at Enjolras, closing the door after himself.

***

The light falling into his studio through the high windows grew dimmer and dimmer, until he felt compelled to switch on the light. He turned from the easel that held his _St Sebastian_ and crossed his studio, avoiding the heap of dropped painting supplies, the empty canvases, yet to be processed and his jumper on the ground to get to the divan and switch on the lamp. The warm glimmer of its comforting shine only persevered for a second, then the lightbulb seemed to decide its own unimpressed stance with his need for lighting and extinguished itself with a soft ping.

‘Damned traitor,’ he grumbled, suddenly blind and fumbling to find his way to the door, ‘you really are going to make me switch on the harsh light?’

His fingers found the switch next to the door. He pressed it. The light remained off, no flicker graced his studio.

‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,’ he slipped on a sketch pad, almost crashed into the wall and avoided a collision of his head with the doorframe by centimetres.

His phone alerted him to a new message, he pulled it from his pocket and read the message sent to all tenants in the academy lodgings, ‘ _We apologise for the power cut and are working on restoring the electricity asap Maintenance Management.._ ’

Grantaire flopped onto the ground and buried his face in the crook of his arm, entirely set on dying peacefully without the light he needed to continue to get the shading and the colours right as he finished the painting off. Locking himself in had proven to be effective, his paintbrush seemed to fly over the canvas if he could not simply leave and wander around the academy buildings whenever he got bored.

The electricity did not come back on within five, ten, or fifteen minutes and Grantaire could no longer fight off the notion that he should do something to pick himself off the floor. He could do his shopping, surprise Joly and Bousset with dinner later on or bake an actual cake. But then again, his friends would go out for drinks with the rest of the newly grown _Amis de l’ABC_ , whether Enjolras won the duel or not.

Grantaire put his feet up on the floor and pulled himself up. In between moves, he groaned and lifted one hand to wipe his hair back. His back complained about having been subjected to the wooden ground, his fingers complained about being without use and his brain was jumping from one thought to the next within seconds.

He switched on his phone’s torch and looked for his keys, soaked his brushes and dried them off quickly to clean them. The early onset dusk cast long shadows into his studio whilst the first stars peeked out behind a thin veil of clouds. He locked his studio and climbed the stairs to the abandoned flat. Joly and Bousset would not be back for a few hours and Adonis had apparently slipped out the window that he had propped open for him. Grantaire looked around his room, taking in the mess he had left, the new cat bed in the corner Adonis had chosen as his area and the open sketchbook he had left at the foot of his bed in the morning before taking his new tomcat to the vet.

It had fallen open to show one of the many sketches he had produced, those of Enjolras at the piano. None of his sketches captured what he really meant to portray and show, so he produced one after the other, filling pages with details and studies, attempting to catch the presence Enjolras gave off and failing in the process. It eluded him how a simple figure, one he had drawn before, proved so difficult when all he wanted was to put it in a certain situation. No logical reason provided any clarity on the matter and Grantaire was too stubborn to let it rest, trying again and again to succeed.

He grabbed his coat out of the wardrobe, the elegant wool one his father had gifted him. He did not wear it often but something about the day called for it, even if he did little more than walk around town.

The street was quiet when he stepped out of the door. The stars provided some pale light but it was the streetlamps that guided him along the pavement. It was peaceful, the few people outside did not mind each other as they walked their set paths. A single dog barked in the distance. Grantaire buried his hand in his coat pockets and walked amongst them, blending in effortlessly. The street was drenched in the darkness of an early winter evening, the first sign for the end of autumn and the biting cold reminder that he should buy an advent calendar for Gavroche. Éponine had asked him to because he would only call it kitschy and a waste of money if it came from her. If it was a present from Grantaire, he was more likely to actually eat the chocolate before throwing the calendar away.

The stores around town had put up Christmas decorations weeks earlier but Grantaire had not given them much notice and looked at them in more detail as he walked past them. He drank in any fairy light and glittery ornament he saw, smiling softly at the idyllic picture presented by the retailers up and down the high street. In general, he liked Christmas but the pressure of buying presents almost got too much for him every year. He pushed thoughts of his broadened circle of friends and the increased amount of gifts he would have to buy to the back of his head and walked on.

One of the clothes shops on the market place blasted _Last Christmas_ at him as he walked past, a cold shudder ran down his spine and he felt the urge to press his hands to his ears and cover them. The everlasting curse of _Wham!_ and the forced Christmas cheer their song meant haunted him as soon as a retailer thought it proper to open the season in October.

The next shop he passed played instrumental Christmas carols. The dominant piano part that pushed the melody forward in caprioles made his skin tingle. A thought drilled into his head, pushing aside the dread of having to hear _Last Christmas_ for weeks whenever he passed an open door in town, all thoughts about how the stars in the night sky were the most beautiful thing he had seen since he painted the sunrise for Jehan and how it made him feel that he was small and on his own whilst even the stars were surrounded by others of their kind. The thought of it let him look up, blinking against the Christmas lights overhead, until he could make out the stars between them. He found the North Star, brightly sparkling against the dark sky, surrounded by the smaller, still sparkling stars that followed it around the firmament. It had guided seamen around the globe for centuries and as Grantaire looked up at it, something seemed to call out to him.

He set off running, his coat wafting behind him, scarf unwrapping and almost flying off his shoulders. His steps were loud on the cobbled stones as he raced down the street, around the corner and crossed the bridge over the river, where he set off along the shore towards the tall dome of the museum and the old buildings along the river bank.

He was out of breath after he reached the sweeping stairs, took them two at a time, shrugged his coat off in the cloakroom at threw it at one of the students working there. Grantaire did not waste a single look on the shiny marble floor and walls, the decorations put up in the foyer or the people standing around.

It was only when he came to a skidding halt in front of Joly in the entrance that he realised that he was still on time. His best friend looked up at him from the chair he sat on, a slight shake of his head indicating a change of emotion.

‘I owe you this position at the door, according to Ferre? Thanks for that, I could not have spent the minutes before this bloody nightmare in a less comfortable position. And just because you didn’t want to come and help; what are you even doing here now?’

‘Joly, please don’t start,’ Grantaire adjusted his scarf and pushed his hair back, ‘I know I messed up and I’m here now, shouldn’t that be more important?’

‘Of course it is, idiot,’ Joly pulled him down to give him a hug, ‘now go in and calm him down.’

‘Whom?’

Jehan appeared in the leaf door before Joly could answer, ‘Good, R is here. Come on, Enjolras is freaking out and Courf is not helping.’

‘I don’t want to be inv-,‘ they pulled him into the hall without listening to him, the fingers of their left hand white around his wrist.

‘You have no other chance,’ Jehan’s voice wavered, ‘it’s you and me. None of the others had to deal with Parnasse before as we did. We can probably help him a little.’

With that, they pulled him past the filling rows in the auditorium, past the elderly couples in their gowns and suits, past the ushers in their uniforms and past their friends, huddled together in front of the stage. Grantaire spotted Musichetta, in her apron, rubbing small circles into Bousset’s back. He was ruffling and tearing his hair, the friends kept joking that he would go bald at an early age, if he continued the habit. Instead, he had shaved his head but his hair grew back, millimetre for millimetre. Bahorel comforted Feuilly who looked a little pale and had his hands clawed in Cosette’s arm. She spoke with Éponine, soft words being exchanged over the noise of chattering and whispering. Marius stood next to them, head hung low and eyes averted.

‘You are here,’ Combeferre’s voice did not let on whether he was surprised. His cool glance gave Grantaire a once-over he would have liked to omit, ‘and you look decent.’

‘Sorry, Combeferre, I only really decided to come a few minutes ago,’ he could still feel the tightness in his lung, the quick breaths he sucked in to fill his lung, the burning warmth of blood shot into his cheeks, ‘Jehan said Enjolras is freaking out, what happened? Why didn’t you do something?’

‘We did,’ Combeferre took his glasses off to wipe them clean, ‘Courfeyrac takes care of him and now that you are here, you can talk to him. With Jehan.’

‘Combeferre, I’m here, that doesn’t mean I want to be involved! Just let me sit in the back and have Courf give Enjolras something to drink.’

‘Not productive. You could help him out here,’ Combeferre raised his voice, getting the attention of their friends, ‘he is your friend, Grantaire, and he is in a really bad place right now. Tell me, what is keeping you from being there for him? Are you really going to be selfish enough to have him fight with his own demons whilst you might just be the one person who could help him?’

‘Who cares about my demons, though?’

‘Right now? No one,’ Combeferre put his glasses back on, having polished them until they sparkled, ‘You are not facing off against Montparnasse on a stage. Get over yourself and help Enjolras, I have a musical duel to stage and announce.’

He brushed past him.

‘Come on,’ Jehan tugged on his hand, ‘Enjolras is in one of the dressing rooms. He’ll probably throw something at you but you’ll be quick enough to duck.’

‘Thanks, Jehan, you really know how to assure me.’

‘You didn’t listen to Combeferre, did you? This is not about you, if you choose to help Enjolras out,’ they let go of him to open one of the simple doors backstage, ‘in you go, brave one who sacrifices himself for his friend. You came here, even though you have more reason than most of us to avoid Montparnasse. Enjolras will know what that means for you.’

‘Are you sure, Jehan?’

‘He will probably get the notion.’

Grantaire rolled his eyes before entering the room.

‘Leave me, Jehan,’ Enjolras hung over a chair in the corner, facing the wall, ‘I have all this sheet music to go through. Again.’

‘Yeah, Jehan would probably let you brood in peace. Tough luck, Apollo, it’s me now. You should really know by now that I am moody, indecisive and unpredictable.’

Enjolras pushed himself up and off the chair with one swift movement. His hair was sticking out in weird angles, he tried to push it behind his ears but it slipped out again immediately. He smoothed his shirt down, carefully ironed cloth with polished cufflinks on the lapels under a hoodie jacket.

‘What are you doing here, R? You said – you said you wouldn’t come!’ Enjolras took a step in his direction but stopped a second later, ‘I thought you wouldn’t come!’

‘I didn’t want to,’ Grantaire crossed his arms over his chest, ‘yes, I ended up here but Jehan made me try and help you.’

‘Help me? I don’t need any help, I am perfectly capable.’

‘You are not scared of Montparnasse, of the duel and everything it includes anymore? Good to hear, you seemed a little tense this morning,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘I must have been under the wrong impression, then.’

He turned back to the door. It opened before he or Enjolras could say another word to reveal Jehan. Their cheeks were burning with a blush that could only have two possible reasons, as far as Grantaire knew; either, Bahorel had pulled them in an unobserved corner to kiss them, or they had met Montparnasse in the corridor.

‘Please tell me that you are ready, Enjolras,’ they slipped through the door and slammed it shut, ‘I can’t stand the sight of him anymore! He’s driving Baz and me crazy with his never ending comments and quips. He needs a muzzle or a gag, not a stage to present himself on!’

Grantaire waved him off, ‘Apollo is as ready as can be, all he needs now is a hairbrush.’

‘Are you out of your mind?’ Enjolras’ eyes twinkled with sudden fury, ‘I am capable of doing this bloody thing without your unintentional mockery! I am here today because I made a decision, I decided to come here and face a demon I wanted to forget. Yes, it takes a toll on me but I don’t hide and chicken out as soon as I see a cloud on the horizon. Make of that what you will but I cannot accept it for me! I will go out there and perform my best, I really can’t bring myself to care about what you have come up with to seem clever and witty.’

Grantaire tried to keep his expression under control, ‘Promise me that you won’t explode in front of Montparnasse like that. We wouldn’t want to give him more stuff against you, right?’

‘As if you cared!’

‘Well then, will you hand me your travel brush and hold him down, dearest Jehan? If he goes off at Montparnasse, he should look decent, at least.’

‘Jehan, don’t you d-‘

‘You look as if you touched a socket, darling. Your hair does look odd,’ they handed Grantaire the small pink brush they carried around wherever they went, ‘let Grantaire take care of it before you go out there.’

‘Grantaire doesn’t even want to be here,’ Enjolras stared him down, eyes darkened with anger.

‘Grantaire came here because he decided to. He also thinks you either need a massage or a slap in the face,’ Grantaire was unwilling to allow Enjolras to go on, motioning towards the chair, ‘sit down, your hair is a mess and you are freaking out. Do you want to shout at me a little more? It seems to help you, judging by the way you stopped shaking the moment you had me to yell at.’

Jehan giggled behind his back but retreated when he shot them an unimpressed look. Enjolras seemed to follow their brief exchange of looks before sitting down and pulling the ribbon out of his hair that had kept some strands back.

‘Do your worst then.’

Grantaire rolled his eyes at him, ‘Always with the drama.’

‘Don’t start.’

‘Stop the bickering,’ Jehan patted both of them on the shoulder, ‘make him look pretty.’

‘There is literally nothing I could do to not achieve that goal,’ Grantaire ran his fingers through Enjolras’ curls, ‘see you out there in a few minutes.’

The door fell shut behind them, leaving Grantaire and Enjolras alone in the dressing room. He looked Enjolras over as he combed his hair, the hoodie jacket he wore did not seem concert-ready and he still looked tense.

‘Are you going to face Montparnasse like that?’

‘Of course not,’ Enjolras’ fingers dug into the armrest, ‘I’ll get changed in a moment.’

‘Good idea,’ Grantaire nodded softly, ‘I am here because I realised I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself, by the way. Leaving you to face off against Montparnasse whilst my conscience wants to kill me on sight – I opted for the possibility that allows me to be in company, if all goes pear-shaped.’

Enjolras turned around to him carefully, a curl slipped from Grantaire’s hands and fell into his eyes. He brushed it away with a small gesture.

‘You really don’t like Montparnasse, do you?’

‘Not at all,’ Grantaire parted Enjolras hair in sections to braid them, ‘he is a leech, out for blood and cold as a fish. And that is just what I learned as a child. I have no intention to spend more time than necessary in his presence. I am, however, willing to suffer through his being here for some time, if I can support you at the same time. We will clash, we know that. The one thing I would never grant Montparnasse is to have the satisfaction of seeing me submit to anyone, and especially not him.’

‘I know you have history,’ Enjolras stated it with an unwavering voice, ‘don’t worry. I still consider you a friend. Something bigger and worse than Montparnasse has to happen to change my thoughts about you, R.’

‘Just don’t count on me in case he tries anything funny,’ Grantaire’s fingers shook when he fastened the black velvet ribbon around the braid he had crafted. If Enjolras noticed it, he did not mention it.


	21. Twenty-One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The musical duel begins...

He found an empty seat next to Claquesous, in one of the back rows, ‘You alright?’

Claquesous looked up from the programme in his hands, ‘Hello there, you made it. I knew you would be here.’

‘Of course you did.’

Claquesous had changed into actual dress pants for the occasion, even though he still wore nothing but black. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and his face was hidden behind the mask of his hair. Grantaire sat down next to him. His knee started bobbing up and down, betraying the forced calmness in his expression.

‘No wonder you can’t lie,’ Claquesous rested on hand on his leg, ‘try to take a few breaths. You are in the auditorium, no one’s getting close to you.’

‘Reassuring,’ he looked around, trying to get a glimpse at familiar faces, ‘Where are Babet and Gueulemer?’

‘First row, closer to the stage.’

‘Do you know what he is going to play?’

‘Even if I did,’ a twinkle appeared in Claquesous’ eyes, ‘I am still his friend and you are Enjolras’. There is a limited space we can occupy but we reach the border as soon as you ask about details concerning the duel. You wouldn’t tell me what Enjolras is playing, either.’

Grantaire had nothing to add to that. They sat side by side for a moment during which he looked around a little more. His eyes were captured by the four people sitting in the box he had prepared with Cosette.

Her father sat somewhat relaxed on his chair, a notepad on the railing in front of him. His bright eyes were scanning the room, nodding a greeting at some of the people still filing into the room. He seemed absorbed in a quiet discussion with two of his fellow judges. Grantaire recognised one of the music professors around the academy, Professor Lamarque was of a similar calibre as his own tutor. Rumour had it that Lamarque and Lafayette made up a Pub Quiz team with drama’s Professor for Early Modern Literature, Robespierre and the sculpting god that was Professor Saint-Just. He did not know how much of the rumour was actually true but it seemed plausible to imagine these luminaries of their territories joining forces to knock some drunken, overambitious students down a peg.

Next to them sat Monsieur Mabeuf, the church warden down the road whom Marius had got on board as a judge. He smiled softly into the room. Grantaire had not met him before, he allowed himself to cast a curious glance over him, lingering a moment on the kind face in the box on the side. Mabeuf’s smile was a point of light next to the thunderous clouds around Javert’s head. Known as the toughest critic around, Javert had built a reputation for himself of being overly direct and hypercritical, looking for the tiniest details, the weakest mistakes and touches out of the ordinary. His sharp, biting comments and humourless words were infamous in their circles. None of them dared to do as much as breathe in the wrong way in his presence, the consequences could range between a bad review in the one newspaper no one read and a career-destroying, flaming article about how the respective artist would single-handedly be responsible for destroying the fine arts.

Grantaire had crossed paths with him before, as had Jehan and Joly; Bousset had famously risked his eviction from the academy when he had challenged Javert’s critique of an art exhibition, calling him a hypocrite after he had found a spelling mistake in the review. Javert, proving to be a true perfectionist, had promised Bousset to keep him from further events and openings. So far, he had stuck to him like bad luck.

‘Well, our judges look grim tonight,’ Claquesous leaned over to him and nudged him in the ribs, ‘they certainly won’t give any free passes and second chances if anything goes wrong.’

‘We are talking about Enjolras and Montparnasse. If anything goes wrong, they will hold it against each other, not the judges,’ Grantaire kept an eye on the front of the room where his friends sat down, leaving only Combeferre standing, ‘they are going to start soon.’

‘How so?’

‘Combeferre is appointed Master of Ceremonies tonight. He’ll do all the talking,’ he pointed to the stage where a single spot shone its bright light onto the curtain.

The conversations in the auditorium died down as Combeferre climbed the stage, a microphone in his hand. Grantaire could make out Courfeyrac, his sparkling blazer and unruly curls gave him away as he jumped out of his seat to applaud his boyfriend. Grantaire heard someone chuckle behind them. An elderly couple shared a smile in the next row, watching Courfeyrac with lively eyes.

‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ Combeferre smiled down from the stage, microphone in his hand, his voice steady as he took a few steps towards the edge, ‘it is with greatest honour and pleasure, that I can stand here, announcing the start of the latest campaign of _Les Amis de l’ABC_. Our group has made a name for itself through the last years, our campaigns and actions have started to have an impact. The proceeds of tonight’s bar, donations and further support are going directly to two charities, half of the money goes to _Les Restos du Coeur_ , a charity that is very close to our hearts and which we are proud to be supporting tonight and the other half goes to a small, local undertaking that _Les Amis_ have chosen together. We have a few representatives of both charities here tonight, we will welcome them as this event goes on. It fills us with joy that an occasion such as this musical duel could pose an opportunity to have an impact on the good work done by incredible people out there.’

Applause interrupted Combeferre, he grinned and waited a moment for it to die down, ‘Now, this academy has seen its fair shares of rows amongst students and professors, not to forget critics. It seems that some events will pose some attraction throughout history. The two men who will face off against each other tonight might as well be called Ludwig van Beethoven, Mozart or Paganini. They could be our own esteemed dean and the man we know and fear around the academy. In fact, both are sitting in one of the boxes here, functioning as our judges tonight. Please give a generous hand to Monsiour Jean Valjean, dean to the Academy of the Fine Arts and Monsieur Javert, the critic amongst the critics!’

‘He’s really nice to Javert, don’t you think?’ Claquesous showed more teeth than usual in a grin, Grantaire could not help feeling cautious whenever his friend decided to show the smile that made him look like a shark about to attack a wounded fish.

‘Just for one night, I guess,’ Grantaire refocused on Combeferre who went on to introduce Lamarque and Mabeuf with a little more enthusiasm than he had talked about Javert a moment ago.

The applause amongst the audience was intercepted with whistles, Mabeuf and Lamarque bowed slightly and accepted the appreciative thunder. Grantaire felt Claquesous nudge him in the side and followed his look. Combeferre still held on to the cards that contained the entire programme for the evening, probably even a few jokes strewn in for good measure by Courfeyrac. Behind him, however, the curtain had parted a few centimetres and Enjolras peeked out from behind it.

‘Looks like your boy is excited,’ Claquesous toyed with a curl that had escaped from behind Grantaire’s ear, ‘what would you say if I proposed a bet on tonight’s outcome?’

‘That I am a better friend to Enjolras than you are to Montparnasse because I would never do that.’

‘You don’t have the moral high ground,’ Claquesous rolled his eyes at him, ‘you only met him a few weeks back, if I am not mistaken.’

‘Time does not limit the bonds of friendship or the intensity of a connection made of same interests.’

‘You sound like that poet friend of yours. All words and wisdom now, R? It suits you surprisingly well, as if you are fitting into an old jumper again. To be honest, it is refreshing to see you embrace it for once.’

He did not continue as Combeferre’s voice grew in excitement, bearing the anticipation that surged through the room, taking firm hold of the audience with the force of waves on a sandy beach ripping the hoarse pellets into the sea. Nothing and no one could withstand Combeferre in such a state. He was in a fiery mood.

‘The history of the musical duel is one of blood, sweat, tears and melodies, a story of lost chances, avoided confrontations and glorious victories. The winner of a musical duel is sure to receive the honour and appreciation of the crowd, and the loser will still have the experience – as long as they don’t run off like the unfortunate Marchand who didn’t ask before accepting to challenge Bach –‘

Laughter and applause interrupted him for a moment, Combeferre stood in the middle of the stage, smiling to himself for a moment. He looked satisfied with himself, giving a small thumbs up to their friends in the first rows.

‘Our contestants come from musical backgrounds that could not be more different as they are. One of them educated at the very academy this auditorium belongs to, the other one made popular by the influence of modern music, taught by the same piano teacher, yet come to the very different genres of the musical spectrum.’

The curtain opened. It revealed Enjolras and Montparnasse, standing on opposite sides of the stage, concentrating too much on avoiding each other’s eyes to seem relaxed in the presence of someone Grantaire knew they disliked to say the least. The two grand pianos, pushed close together to face each other, loomed over them as they joined Combeferre, occupying one half of the stage each.

‘They make quite the spectacle, don’t you think?’ Claquesous leaned in again, a smirk hanging off the corner of his mouth, ‘I mean, look at them. Two gentlemen in their own right, not necessarily the communal eye.’

He was right, at least on the outside both men looked every bit the part. Enjolras wore the pressed and starched shirt he should wear as an aspiring concert pianist, every fibre the perfect picture of a future laid out on a silver platter. He looked the part, presented something believable, something an audience could grasp.

Montparnasse had chosen the outfit closest to what he made his trademark look on stage. The waistcoat he wore was flashier than Enjolras’, silver thread sparkled under the chandelier’s light. He had more of a baroque aristocrat than a musician and Grantaire could only imagine how much it annoyed Enjolras to see his opponent in that fashion. He had forgone the wig and hat but carried a cane which he rested on slightly when he stepped next to Combeferre. Grantaire could tell that he wore more makeup than usual, probably even enough to count as mask. In comparison to him, Enjolras looked pale in the classic black and white attire he wore.

‘Our evening’s entertainment is going to be based on four rounds of different music genres. We are going to hear music from Baroque, nineteenth century Romanticism and the modern age before our contestants will be faced with a surprise challenge,’ Combeferre motioned for Enjolras and Montparnasse to sit down on their respective stools, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the Academy of the Fine Arts and _Les Amis de l’ABC_ cordially invite you to enjoy an evening of musical brilliance and entertainment.’

Applause interrupted him again. Montparnasse seized the moment to say something to Enjolras. Grantaire saw how he tensed up and clenched his fists.

‘You know Montparnasse doesn’t give much on what happens tonight, right?’ Claquesous took his hand and squeezed it, ‘for him, it is just a little fun on the side after finishing the tour. He will try and wind Enjolras up but at the end of the day, this is not something that will bring in publicity for the band.’

‘I don’t know. They have as much history with each other as Jehan and I with Montparnasse,’ Grantaire slumped back in his chair, ‘this may very well end in a disaster.’

‘Cut the pessimism. Enjoy the music, I trust both of them came up with astonishing pieces. Did you hear Enjolras practise?’

‘No, not once. He can make a secret of certain things.’

Montparnasse got ready on stage, stretching his arms over his head. Someone in the audience cheered and whistled.

Combeferre stepped back to the centre of the stage, ‘We will begin, ladies and gentleman, with Round One of tonight’s competition as our challenger prepares to perform. We are being treated to a true jewel of the pre-Classic now – a long way from what _Patron-Minette_ usually bring to the stage. Montparnasse will now perform the _Gigue_ from the _Second English Suite_ by Johann Sebastian Bach.’

‘That’s what I mean,’ Grantaire tightened his hand into a fist around the cuff of his shirt, ‘Bach?’

‘What, he was a brilliant composer. Definitely Montparnasse’s favourite, quite a few of our songs were inspired by his music,’ Claquesous joined the applause for Montparnasse.

Grantaire winced.

The light, soft notes poured into the room. Montparnasse’s fingers jumped danced on the keyboard, scaling, meeting and overpowering each other. He allowed no one to doubt his skill, not for one second. A few young voices in the audience cheered him on and Grantaire could not hide the sniff he omitted in disapproval.

‘Philistine,’ Claquesous hissed, ‘that’s the change, old boy. People express their approval whilst the piece is played. You know fucking rock concerts.’

‘Yes, but I don’t interrupt recitals of classical music,’ his eyes were still on Enjolras’ pale face, he had lost what little colour had been in his cheeks when Combeferre announced a piece by Bach.

Montparnasse winked at someone in the audience whilst finishing his piece. His teeth blinked bright and white and Grantaire was reminded of Brecht’s _Threepenny Opera_.

‘Hey, you okay?’ Claquesous asked again, ‘Are you seriously that upset about people cheering. Or about Montparnasse having fun? You know they’re just going to bump heads, right? Montparnasse is in no way serious about all this. He’ll dally a little and entertain Enjolras’ fancies but he is not the one driving himself into the ground about this circus.’

‘I am fairly certain Enjolras wouldn’t call it fancies or circus. Montparnasse is here to have a good time.’

‘Yeah, Enjolras definitely isn’t,’ Grantaire whispered back.

Montparnasse sat back on his stool, a smug grin on his face. Combeferre made another entrance from where he sat, without doubt next to a restless Courfeyrac.

‘Thank you, for this first performance. We will hear more of Montparnasse shortly but first, Enjolras performs _Tambourin en Rondeau,_ composed by Jean-Philippe Rameau. The piece, a baroque masterpiece, was originally written for harpsichord and was adapted for piano in this form for tonight by Enjolras.’

Polite applause. Grantaire felt the palms of his hands get clammy with sweat. He wiped them on his trousers, staring ahead to the stage. His focus was on Enjolras alone who sat up straight, hands hovering over the keyboard. Grantaire saw the twitch, the tiny indicator of actual nerves getting to him for the fracture of a second. His heart let him know it was worried by sending a painful impulse through his upper body. He flinched.

‘Hey, you okay?’ Claquesous grabbed his elbow before he could smack it into his side, ‘Can you calm down?’

‘This is going to end badly,’ Grantaire gasped out, ‘Montparnasse will find something, he will break Enjolras. Bach is only the start.’

Claquesous squeezed his elbow tight enough to send another jolt of pain through his brain. Whatever he intended to say was interrupted by the first notes from the piano.

He had heard an adaptation for strings once, hearing it on a piano meant a whole new dimension. The intricate combination of trills, accompanied by dissected chords, invited to move around, to dance in a baroque palace. Enjolras managed to make the repetitive patterns of the melody seem more complex, he added flourishes, dynamic and an air of melancholy to it as he hit the keys with the soft touch Grantaire had come to know so well. He kept the tempo lively enough to suggest a ball, a dance but held it back at times in a suggestion of measuredness. As the melody dipped, so did the volume of his play and for a mere second, the picture of baroque palaces and dances was replaced by a forest green and fairies fluttering in a summer breeze before a heavy rain.

‘He’s not bad, your boy,’ Claquesous leaned closer, ‘not the most challenging of pieces, of course.’

Grantaire could not answer. He was transfixed by the sight of Enjolras on stage, sat comfortably in the spotlight, hair shimmering like the summer sun herself. His pale, slim fingers jumped, danced over the keyboard and his upper body moved to the music, giving it the emotional background it needed.

When he finished, applause erupted in the hall. Grantaire watched as his friend got up and bowed sharply. His eyes darted up to the box for a moment where the judges were scribbling comments on their notepads. Grantaire wished for the sparkle in Dean Valjean’s eyes to be genuine, the smile on Mabeuf’s face to be the real deal. Somehow, their appreciation seemed to disappear next to Javert’s stern face.

Combeferre re-entered the stage, his cards in hand, ‘That sees the end of our first round of old masterpieces. So far, our contestants have done well, I would say. Our next round will see them play nineteenth century classics. Once again, I welcome to this stage Montparnasse, this time with a rendition of Liszt’s _La Campanella_.’

‘He’s really going there?’ there was genuine surprise in his voice as he turned around to face Claquesous, ‘Liszt? And that piece?’

Montparnasse rose from the stool he sat on to take a quick bow towards the judges. Grantaire saw their pens fly over paper, taking notes. There were only two possible endings when doing Liszt, either success across the board or cultural suicide.

He trusted Montparnasse to nail it and hated himself for it.

_La Campanella_ had been his mother’s favourite piece. The record had played softly in the background whenever Montparnasse and his mother came over for tea. As far as Grantaire knew, she had never played it in concert but Montparnasse played it, soft and intricate, lazily flawless and resonate through the hall. The cheerful semidemiquavers send ripples through the room, echoing themselves. His fingers flew, spanning the whole width of the keyboard. Dark hair slipped into his face, the manic glint in his eyes kindling, his upper body jolting with the power of his touch. The grand piano seemed to shake under the energy he put into his play. He made it seem easy, almost effortless since his fingers were almost calm in their rush. The playful, amusing melody stood in harsh contrast with Montparnasse’s looks and Grantaire found himself swallowing a lump in his throat that threatened to cut off his breath. His posture reminded him of the evenings they had spent together, playing four-handed for their mothers before retiring to his bedroom to do anything but play music. A ghost of feathery touches slid down his spine and made him shiver with the memory of their last meetings.

Montparnasse finished amid the applause of the crowd. He got up from the stool briskly and bowed again. His eyes flitted over the people seated in front of him, catching Grantaire off guard. For a moment, they stared at each other before Montparnasse broke into a satisfied grin and stepped back.

‘Thank you, Montparnasse, for a spectacular interpretation of Liszt’s masterpiece,’ Combeferre shuffled his cards, ‘we now welcome Enjolras back to the stage who has prepared a piece by Mikhail Glinka, _The Lark_.’

‘Risky to go with a lesser known one,’ Claquesous murmured, ‘he proves a daredevil after all.’

‘Enjolras has his fair share of exciting stories under his belt. Activism entails that,’ Grantaire picked at a flap of skin on his thumb, ‘I bet he got arrested at least once.’

‘And that’s what you look for in a guy? I have been arrested loads of times,’ Claquesous crossed his arms over his chest.

‘Now, you wouldn’t want me to think that you like me after all, would you?’ he nudged him gently in the ribs.

‘Shut up and watch your boy,’ Claquesous proceeded to stare straight ahead without acknowledging him further.

The piece started soft enough with two bars of crochets before scaling into first quaver sets. Grantaire perked up in his seat.

‘He is countering five sharps with five flats, this is amazing,’ he gasped, holding his breath over the following bars.

The melody was neither rousing nor furious, instead, it flowed. The lark soaring high in the sky seemed the calmest image Enjolras could summon. His fingers danced, he closed his eyes and Grantaire felt something sting in his eye.

This Enjolras, the one completely lost in his music whilst coaxing melancholy, wistful tones out of the instrument, was the one he had fallen for and he was the one who delivered the transition from common time quavers to challenging sets and cascades confidently. His first trills tested the water, playing with the dynamics as piano notes filled the sweeping room. The force of a signpost trill pressed the audience into their chairs as the melody climbed, soared as the bird ascended, trills and demisemiquavers chasing each other in a singing yet graceful way. It was the grandeur of Enjolras’ play, the way his shoulders bowed slightly as he gave utterance to every single note according to its position and value that kept them on the edge of their seats until he finished, allowing his hand to hover over the keyboard before turning to face the audience.

For a moment, the hall was silent and no sound was audible. Then, a first clap echoed through the room, more followed and within seconds, the first person jumped to their feet. Enjolras stood and watched as a single person’s enthusiasm developed into a wave and finally, a standing ovation. Grantaire swallowed dryly, rooted to the spot. His knees and legs refused to carry him. His hands weighed heavily in his lap. He could not raise them to join in as he was preoccupied with calming his breathing to keep himself from blacking out.

Claquesous cast a glance at him, ‘You ready for the interval, I guess?’


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

Grantaire calmed down a little more after the beer Claquesous bought him at the bar in the foyer, ‘All profits going to charity. Well, nothing less to be expected of the resident do-gooder.’

‘Shut up,’ Grantaire shoved him, ‘he means it. He truly means it when he says he’s changing something, and he achieves it with pure stubbornness.’

‘Sure, you have to appreciate the passion he puts into his projects. He rivals Montparnasse in determination and drive.’

‘Would you please stop comparing Enjolras to Montparnasse?’ Grantaire all but screamed at Claquesous, ‘I am sick and tired of the way everyone praises Montparnasse, even though all he has ever done to me and at least two of my friends is almost unspeakably cruel and I don’t wish for anyone to experience it. Montparnasse can sing, arguably so, and I will not doubt that but he has just the worst character and abuses the people that let him come close.’

‘Well maybe you should stop making a fucking miracle of it all, then,’ Claquesous got close enough for Grantaire to be able to smell the beer on his breath, ‘you all shroud yourselves in darkness whenever the topic arises. How am I supposed to know what I should hate Montparnasse for, if all I ever hear from you is that he treated you some way but you do not tell me what exactly he did. I refuse to hate someone based on something you keep saying in passing.’

‘Maybe because it hurts to delve into detail? Maybe because I risk triggering myself every time I talk to anyone about it? Maybe because I wish no one would have to hear about it?’

An arm was slung over his chest and he felt himself being dragged away, through the foyer. Claquesous pinned him to wall and pressed his forearm to his throat.

‘Careful now, R, you are getting on my nerves,’ his eyes glinted with the dark spark that made him so unapproachable when he wanted, ‘I don’t like whining and you, dear friend, are whining.’

‘So you want the whole story of sexual abuse and harassment? You want to know just how often Montparnasse came by when he was stressed out, annoyed or just needed something to distract him? You want to know how often I fell for his excuses and cheesy lines? You want to know how often I could not even fathom that I allowed him back into my life and bed? How often I felt so dirty that my mother complained about me skyrocketing the water bill because I showered for hours? Should I make a list of all the slurs and abuse shouted at me after he was done because he needed to justify it all for himself?’ Grantaire felt tears prick in his eyes, he shoved Claquesous away from himself and downed his beer, chucking the bottle in the nearest bin without paying any attention to the disapproving looks people around shot him as it shattered on impact.

He made his way to the nearest bathrooms and locked himself in. As soon as he knew the door to be closed behind himself, he slipped to the ground and hugged his knees. His fingers were shaking and he felt a sob stuck in his throat. He felt stupid for running off, pathetic for letting it get to him and betrayed for the way Claquesous had treated him.

‘Grantaire?’ Claquesous’ voice sounded hollow in the tiled bathroom, ‘I know you’re in here. Fuck, you can’t just run off like a kid when things don’t go as you want them to go.’

He felt anger rise in his throat. That or bile, he could not tell. He unlocked the door and slammed it open.

‘You say things don’t go as I want them to go, guess what? They never have! Between Montparnasse, my mother and all the people who don’t give a fuck whether I manage to accomplish something or die in a ditch, passed out after too many drinks, I don’t know what I should expect anymore. If things started going my way, I would accuse every single person in my life of either manipulating me or taking the piss,’ Grantaire pushed himself off the floor, ‘so fuck off and leave me alone, Sous!’

‘No,’ he held an arm out for him, ‘you get a hug. One time thing, enjoy it while it lasts.’

His arms had more in common with a vice as he tightened them around Grantaire’s upper body. He squeezed him tight enough to leave him breathless for a second, clamping his head into the crook of his neck.

‘Grantaire,’ Claquesous’ voice was uncharacteristically soft, ‘I am sorry for pressuring you. I should have stopped when you told me to.’

‘It’s alright,’ Grantaire mumbled into his shoulder, ‘I overreacted.’

‘No, you didn’t. You needed a break, I get that now. _Patron-Minette_ back in town must have opened quite a few old wounds. I would have done something, anything, if I had known. God, I didn’t even question that awful nickname. Is that…one of the things he –‘

‘Podge? Yes, it was easy to make fun of the fact that I wasn’t the skinniest kid. It also kept my confidence low enough to keep me at his beck and call,’ Grantaire winced and wiped at his eyes, ‘fuck, I’m messed up.’

‘Let me guess, though,’ Claquesous pulled back a little, ‘Enjolras doesn’t know.’

‘Of course he doesn’t know. Why would I tell him?’

‘You can’t keep pretending, R, he will find out.’

‘Oh come on, how would he find out,’ Grantaire ran his hand through his hair, fingers getting stuck in a few tangles, ‘there is no way in the world that he finds out.’

‘Enjolras has met your mother before, darling,’ the dangerous edge was back in his voice, ‘he just has to mention knowing you once and it all goes to shit.’

‘She can control herself,’ Grantaire moved to comb the tangles out of his hair.

‘You are playing with fire. Lying doesn’t pay off, you have to tell him at some point, if you want to keep that dream alive,’ Claquesous rubbed his temples, ‘and that’s coming from me.’

He patted his back, ‘You can’t hide forever, R. I’m sorry. At some point, the questions are going to pile up and I had rather you ask for help now and get people to understand, than fighting on your own, swimming and bloody drowning. Will you promise me one thing, Grantaire?’

‘And what would that be?’

‘Talk! Talk to Baz or Jehan, they seem to get it. Jehan was the one who had a thing with ‘Parnasse, weren’t they? They’ll understand. Just talk because you are not okay and I can’t help you, my emotional capability ends right here.’

‘Wow, Sous, you sound almost concerned.’

‘Fucking tool, I am concerned. And that’s making me fucking angry!’

Grantaire cast a glance at Claquesous and pulled his shoulders in, ‘We’re missing the second part of the duel. They must have started again.’

‘Yes, but you need to take care of yourself. We can go back, if you want but you are not leaving this room without promising me to talk to anyone.’

Grantaire swallowed and nodded slowly, ‘Okay. I promise you, I will talk.’

‘Good!’ Claquesous pushed the door open for them, ‘go on, then.’

They made their way through the empty foyer. Grantaire opened the door slowly and slipped through the gap. The sound of a soft piano tune welcomed them as they snuck to their seats in the back. Enjolras was playing and Grantaire tried to pick up the melody.

‘So, we missed Montparnasse’s performance,’ Claquesous opened his programme, ‘ _Valsa da Dor_ , never heard of that one. And Enjolras ventures into movie soundtracks, apparently. Did you ever see that French movie? _Comptine d’un autre été: la demarche_ – what a fucking mouthful! He really wants to shove his middle-class intellect in your face, doesn’t he?’

Grantaire leaned back and closed his eyes as more notes dripped off the piano and wove into a warm, optimistic tapestry of sound, every note being a thread that raised the tension a little more. The soft, playful melody enchanted the audience and spread smiles on several faces. He felt it tug on the corners of his mouth, too and let himself have the moment that the flowing tune had prompted.

He saw one of the elderly ladies in the ninth row produce a tissue to dab at her eyes. The man next to her squeezed her hand and offered more tissues. Grantaire joined the crowd applauding Enjolras as he stood from his stool. His expression seemed a little taut but he looked out over the crowd with a small smile. He locked eyes with him for a second and seemed to relax for the duration of their shared look. Grantaire grinned back at him, giving him a thumbs up.

And then, as the applause died down and Combeferre was getting up to announce the fourth round, the surprise, the unprepared piece, Montparnasse jumped out of his seat. He strode to the middle of the stage and let his eyes roam. A dark shadow fell over his face as he brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes.

‘You might be waiting for Combeferre to tell you what we are supposed to play for our final round in this wonderful concert. I, for once, am looking forward to this and I want to thank all of you for coming. I am sure most of you are also generously donating to the cause my dearest adversary has picked. Now, the true reason we are here!’ Montparnasse showed a toothy grin, ‘There, in the very back of this room, in the last row, sits a very special boy. He has avoided me for years now because turning his back on me once wasn’t enough. You left me for Enjolras, Grantaire; you poor soul got caught between the favours of the two of us. I am grateful that our good Enjolras here is defending your honour tonight, like Apollo fighting for his Hyacinth. Look the story up, dear people here tonight! Grantaire is in the unique position to shun one of us, and as much as I enjoy the duel, I could not sit there and listen to the beautiful music we play without telling you lovely people here tonight about this little feud, this pursuit of recognition. Dear judges, I beg of you, do judge us before this background, too. Thank you!’

He stepped back with a smile, glancing at Grantaire with self-certainty in his sparkling eyes. A few people had turned around to catch a look at him. He felt the blood rush to his cheeks and shrunk in his seat, feeling his stomach cramp. The last thing he saw before he had to close his eyes in an attempt to fight the nausea was the blank expression on Enjolras’ face.

‘And he’s said it,’ Claquesous sighed and patted his back, ‘I’m sorry, R.’

Combeferre, struggling for words, waved for Montparnasse to sit back down. His stern face could hardly hide the fury in his eyes as he tried to come up with an explanation.

‘After this spontaneous announcement, I will only make a few words. We are indebted to Grantaire,’ he eventually said, not looking at his cards first, ‘but I would like to point out that, rather than being the focal point for at least one of our contestants, he is an active part of _Les Amis de l’ABC_ and has, in fact, chosen the second charity the donations will go to tonight. As a project that is of interest to all of us, Grantaire decided that half of the proceeds should go the local orphanage and the fantastic volunteers that provide the kids with their packed school lunches.’

Again, applause broke out and interrupted Combeferre who grinned softly. He found Grantaire’s eyes for a moment and smiled with a nod, ‘We conclude tonight’s performance with a round that challenges Montparnasse and Enjolras with an unprepared task. Could I please have one of our judges to announce what the challenge will be?’

Dean Valjean got out of his seat and cleared his throat, ‘Thank you, first of all, for putting together this evening. As the judging panel for tonight, we have decided to put a personal challenge for our two pianists out there and ask them to pick and perform any song, written for lead vocals, that describes them. This may be a song written after nineteen sixty as we look for something different.’

‘Thank you, Monsieur Valjean, and thank you for letting us use the concert hall tonight,’ Combeferre turned back to Enjolras and Montparnasse, ‘five minutes preparation start now!’

‘Did you really pick one of the charities?’ Claquesous leaned over, ‘Because if you did, I am obliged to tell you that Enjolras is contagious.’

‘I suggested it, the topic came up once or twice.’

‘Wow, Grantaire, turning into a do-gooder? A miracle.’

Grantaire watched as Enjolras wrote notes on a scrap of paper, forehead wrinkled in pure concentration. His head bobbed a little and his foot was tapping to a beat only he heard in his head. For a moment, Grantaire could not take his eyes off him, sitting on his stool with a pencil in his hand.

‘What do you think they are going to play?’ Claquesous asked with actual interest in his voice.

Grantaire, who had forced himself to look anywhere but at Enjolras and brought his attention to where Babet and Gueulemer sat, a few rows in front of them, had to ask him to repeat his question. He cleared his throat, stalling.

‘You know what? I have no idea. Whenever I listened to Enjolras play or we talked, it was always about classical music. He played a bit of _Anastasia_ , once. I have no idea what kind of popular music he likes, probably Indie.’

‘Well, I can assure you ‘Parnasse is going to play something out of this century. Not so sure about your boy, though. Seventies, Eighties, what do you think it will be?’

‘Do you want to bet? Because I will go with Eighties.’

‘You are a playing man and I know that, forgotten already?’

‘Drinks next time? Loser pays.’

They shook hands. Claquesous turned back around towards the stage where Montparnasse and Enjolras were still scribbling notes and annotations on their performances.

‘Oh they are good aren’t you?’ an elderly lady turned around in her seat, her eyes flickering over Claquesous’ studded jacket and pierced ears before settling on Grantaire in his elegant woollen coat and his carefully destroyed curls.

‘They certainly are,’ he smiled, ‘are you enjoying yourself?’

‘Oh yes, dear. I told Albert we had to come, didn’t I?’ she nudged the man sitting next to her, he nodded and mumbled something, ‘We come to all the concerts and recitals the academy organises. But this is not the academy, is it?’

‘No, it’s a student activist group,’ Grantaire felt himself smile at her inquiring gaze, ‘they work towards charities, try to make something happen, change the world around them. They are students of all sorts of fine arts, musicians, writers, poets, artists. They all come together to change something around the campus, for the students of the academy, and in the long run, for society.’

‘That seems like quite the task, dear. Surely, they must struggle to combine work and studies?’

There was no malicious implication behind her question. Grantaire nodded and ran a hand through his hair.

‘I’m sure they sometimes ask themselves why they chose to do it. Enjolras,’ he pointed to the stage, ‘has a habit of sleeping too little and working too much, running himself into the ground and getting angry at anyone around him once he’s tired enough. We learned to deal with it, I guess.’

‘But what exactly do they do, these _Les Amis de l’ABC_? What are their goals and aims? Their flyer and the posters certainly look interesting.’

Grantaire noticed the flyer she used to fan herself, it was one of the designs he had come up with for the duel. He nodded, contemplating how to phrase the answer the woman was waiting for with bright eyes and a kind smile. Her make-up was impeccable, no hair on her head was out of place and the shawl she wore looked expensive enough to warrant her a place on the governor’s board.

‘I don’t think they have the one goal. The beauty of _Les Amis_ is the multitude of personalities coming together to work towards different goals. An issue is raised and discussed, by everybody. Any member can suggest issues to add to the schedule.’

‘Oh how sensible,’ she turned a little more in her chair, facing him completely, ‘are they the ones who campaigned for more transparency during the application process and the support scholarships for talented students from low-income families?’

‘They are that exact group,’ Grantaire grinned, ‘it would delight Enjolras to hear that you have heard of them.’

‘He is the one competing? Old family, that one.’

‘True,’ Grantaire followed his friend as he bent down to talk to Courfeyrac, ‘he does not rely on that. Instead, he tries to make it easier for people without his background and privilege to reach the same goals and succeed on the same level as those who entered with some sort of advantage. _Les Amis_ try to support groups in the public eye, draw attention to their struggle and help wherever and to which extend possible. They change the way the world thinks, person by person, campaign for campaign, never stopped by criticism or hindrances. Even though their attempts may be seen as a drop of water in the desert they do not give up. Everybody contributes in their own way, everybody is valued, no matter how hopeless and sceptic they may seem.’

He realised that he began to tear up as he said it. He had not thought about it before actually sharing his view on the group of friends that had accepted him in their circles, not once questioning

‘You must admire them a lot, dear,’ the woman squeezed his hand, ‘you seem to know them well.’

Grantaire smiled back at her, catching Claquesous’ eye roll in his peripheral vision, ‘I’ll have you know, ma’am, I’m one of them.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me how you liked it :)


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

Claquesous did not comment on the unexpected declaration Grantaire had delivered. Instead, Combeferre returned to the middle of the stage with a small piece of paper in his hand.

‘It counts,’ Claquesous slapped his thigh, ‘Never in a million years is Enjolras playing something as modern as the Eighties. You are going to pay for so many drinks, man.’

‘We have our final results for the unprepared round to the challenge where our judges asked the contestants to come up with a song that describes them. Montparnasse will go first, having chosen a song by a contemporary band. He will play his variation on _The Good, The Bad And The Dirty_ by _Panic! at the Disco_.’

‘Shit,’ Grantaire grinned, ‘that is about what I expected from him. Has he really thought this through?’

‘I should hope so. It’s innovative.’

Montparnasse took his place at the piano up front. Grantaire shot a look up to the judges’ box where Mabeuf and Javert were quietly discussing something.

‘It’s lacking finesse and possibilities. There is nothing he can add to make it more interesting, a song like that requires the band setup, the voice, the bass. If you have a melody and harmonies you can come up with variations and that song is lacking in that department.’

‘Whatever,’ Claquesous shrugged.

Montparnasse began to play, the melody filling the concert hall. He looked manic, hair flopping into his face as he picked up the first bars and started to develop them. His accompanying left provided a regular beat, brushing over what the right did as the melody got tangled and resolved, coming back to something that sounded too much like an accompaniment in Grantaire’s ears. He had to sit on his hands to keep them from shaking. This song, as much as Montparnasse wanted it to be about him breaking rules and challenging everybody in his way, gave him hope. He might just have miscalculated when he picked it.

Grantaire allowed himself to bop his knee along. The song wasn’t bad in itself, it just seemed to lack something to round it off. For all he knew, it could be the insufficient preparation time that got the better of him. Montparnasse was only human, after all.

Applause arose from the rows of audience members, a little more cautious and restrained this time, something Grantaire noted with more pleasure than it should have given him. The audience seemed a little taken aback after he finished his pop punk extravaganza. Montparnasse got up to bow, his coat tails wafting a bit.

‘Thank you, Montparnasse,’ Combeferre stepped back onto the stage, another piece of paper in his hand, ‘thank you for this performance of _The Good, The Bad and The Dirty_ by _Panic! At the Disco_. We are now going to hear Enjolras’ rendition of _Too Much Love Will Kill You_ by the one and only _Queen_. Please enjoy!’

Claquesous’ hands hung mid-clap, his face caught in an expression of amazement and disbelief. Grantaire felt a grin tug at his lips. Enjolras lifted his hands above the keyboard and let them linger there for a moment. He looked down on the ivory keys, setting his fingertips down gently.

A first sequence of notes rippled from the instrument and flooded into the room. Grantaire felt the shiver run down his spine as the melody pierced his ears. It resembled a cascade more than anything, with pleasant harmonies accompanying the easy flow, giving it more colour and reverberance. Judging by the reaction displayed by both the older and younger audience, Enjolras had picked the right song. Grantaire smiled softly as the melody set in, asking to be heard. It didn’t force itself onto them, instead, the pleasant tune wafted through the room and wrapped itself around the listeners and warmed them. Glissandos and solemn cadences rose as Enjolras turned the simple Rock ballad into a polyphonic masterpiece.

Grantaire’s vision turned blurry. He felt Claquesous tap his arm and took the tissue offered to him. There was no apparent reason for him to feel as teary as he was, he wiped at his eyes and tried to hide the tears stinging on his cheeks.

‘He plays so beautifully,’ Grantaire cleared his throat and pocketed the tissue, ‘how can he just do that?’

Claquesous did not respond to him, he had lowered his head and hid his face behind the veil his hair easily turned into. They listened to the remainder of Enjolras’ performance in solemn silence, not spoiling it with their hushed conversation. Grantaire could see Courfeyrac holding up his phone in the first row and hoped he was filming, he needed physical proof of Enjolras playing a contemporary song so beautifully that tears coursed and some people started to sing along under their breath. It were the older guests in the auditorium, the ones who were likely to have grown up with the sweet sounds of Queen.

Enjolras took the melody to new high points, flattered it with a soft flourish and raised his quick-fingered expertise to a breath-taking standard. He stroked the keys, barely pressing them and still coaxing the pleasant notes out of the instrument. There was a key change somewhere, which left half the audience breathless for a moment, a clearly audible gasp going through the room.

He ended with an intricate sequence and a dark chord, his hands springing back from the keyboard and settling in his lap. The last note still hovered under the high ceiling, Enjolras’ foot on the pedal kept it in place for another moment.

Then, hell broke loose. People jumped out of her chairs, cheering and clapping in what sounded like a thunder storm. Enjolras got up from his stool, his expression not giving anything away as he stepped towards the edge of the stage and took a bow. He waved at _Les Amis_ in the first row with a small smile. Then, he made room for Combeferre who took over for a few comments on Enjolras and Montparnasse’s final performances.

‘We would now like to ask our judges to come together over some of the delicious food sponsored by _The Corinthe_ ’s own Musichetta – give us a wave, ‘Chetta!’

Heads turned around to where Musichetta stood near the door to the foyer. She wore a crisp, new apron with the _Corinthe_ ’s logo on it.

‘Whilst our judges contemplate, Les Amis de l’ABC would like to invite you to taste those special goods, too. Have a look around the foyer where we have furthermore provided drinks and leaflets on the charities we are supporting tonight. Please use this time to pick up a leaflet and read up on their aims and causes. You will also have the opportunity to look at and buy some of our members’ work, if something tickles your fancy. As mentioned before, all proceeds go to charity and the artwork exhibited has been produced exclusively by members of Les Amis. We will have an hour to browse through everything, see you out there!’

Grantaire got out of his chair and bolted for the door. He felt a few looks in his neck but stormed past Musichetta and outside, anyway. When he stopped, he had reached a niche in the staircase, behind a marble statue of Dionysos who had been put up on a pedestal as the god of theatre. Grantaire pressed himself back against the wall and put his head between his knees to try and steady his breathing.

Enjolras had gotten through the whole concert without major hiccups, Montparnasse had potentially picked the wrong song and all he needed to survive now was an hour in a soon to be crowded place where strangers would bump into him without taking much note of him. He still felt tears prick in his eyes and the corners of his mouth were tight where previous salt tracks had left the skin a little strained. Grantaire wanted to hide and crawl even further into the corner he had hidden in when the first people started to file into the foyer. Chattering bounced off the walls, couples with linked arms walked down the stairs, talking about the concert.

‘Hey, why are you hiding?’ Jehan slid into the niche and sat down next to him, ‘You left abruptly.’

‘Sorry,’ Grantaire shuffled around a little, ‘I didn’t want to take my chances.’

‘Of running into him?’ They pulled a small paper parcel out of their pocket and unfolded it, ‘Would you like some sweets?’

‘You brought sweets to a charity event? Shouldn’t you buy something from Musichetta’s buffet?’

‘She has very fancy macarons and pastries, not jelly babies and Skittles,’ Jehan waved their small sweets stack at Grantaire, ‘come on, we need to get your bloodsugar-level back up.’

A second later, Grantaire found a few Skittles being stuffed into his mouth. He sat back and sucked on the sweets. Their juices hit his taste buds and washed over them, leaving nothing but sweet fruitiness that covered the threatening taste of bile rising in his throat.

‘Thanks, Jehan,’ he managed to say eventually.

‘Always,’ they leaned against his shoulder, ‘we need to build each other up, R, if no one else seems to see us.’

‘We are literally hiding, dear,’ Grantaire pointed out and rubbed his temples with his shirt sleeve, ‘did you have a chance to look around the stands before now or did you just sneak in here and now your possibility to go around is down the drain?’

‘Don’t worry,’ Jehan started to braid their hair, ‘I had Baz save me a few things. He’s going to buy them in my name. He also made me take these.’

They pulled out two bottles of fizzy drinks and handed Grantaire one. For a moment, he looked at it, dumbfounded. Then, he tipped it against his lips and let the cool liquid run down his throat.

‘You know Baz is a keeper, right? You should never let him get away,’ he tried to glimpse around the statue and caught the sight of Bahorel and Bousset who stood at a table with Feuilly’s fan artwork, ‘Damn, I didn’t even know Feuilly would sell his stuff tonight, I should have made Joly buy something for me.’

‘Feuilly would give something to you for free,’ Jehan grinned, ‘why didn’t you offer some of your stuff?’

‘I wasn’t approached.’

Jehan patted his shoulder and leaned against him, ‘You should offer next time we organise something, Enjolras would love some input from you, I’m sure about it.’

Grantaire huffed out a breath, ‘’m not so sure about that, he won’t appreciate my weird ideas.’

He tipped the bottle back and sucked the drink out of it, just to have something to do. Jehan threaded their fingers in their hair and hummed quietly. A few people walked past their hiding spot, debating the performances. It sounded like this particular group could not quite decide who they favoured.

‘Hey, R, look!’ Jehan pointed past the pedestal Dionysos stood on, ‘Enjolras just came out!’

Their friend had left the auditorium to mingle. His hair had still not completely slipped out of the braid Grantaire had made for him and the few strands that framed his face stuck to the sweaty skin. He wore a soft smile and shook a few hands. Mostly, these hands belonged to elderly ladies who beamed at him and grabbed his arms, too. He seemed content enough to put up with them.

‘Our esteemed leader makes an appearance,’ Grantaire followed him with his eyes as Enjolras approached Courfeyrac and Marius who stood near one of the charities’ stand, a leaflet in hand, ‘does he seem stressed or upset to you?’

‘Not at all,’ Jehan craned their neck to peek around the statue, ‘he seems perfectly normal and alright. Do you think –‘

‘Montparnasse didn’t use an unobserved moment to say something? I doubt it,’ Grantaire wished he could get his hands on actual booze, ‘I think Enjolras has put on a mask.’

‘What are you doing, talking of masks?’ Claquesous stopped in front of the statue. He did not look at them and stared straight ahead into the crowd that bustled about the foyer but he lifted an eyebrow, ‘you are horrible at playing hide and seek. Both of you are. The trick is not to talk.’

He moved on, greeting Babet and Geuelemer who had started going over the buffet Musichetta provided. They embraced and started a conversation. Grantaire felt Jehan exhale softly.

‘’Sous is an alright guy,’ he assured quietly, ‘an asshole about almost everything but actually okay.’

‘I can’t bring myself to trust him,’ they emptied their drink, ‘I’m sorry, R, I know he’s your friend.’

‘If I needed all of my friends to be friends, I would end up isolated because they would realise that my presence is kind of redundant. Before you say anything, that’s happened before. I am not interesting enough to keep people in my life for longer than a couple of years.’

Jehan’s elbow between his ribs made him stop, ‘You do realise we’ve been friends for quite some time now, don’t you? You are an idiot, R, but my idiot which makes it a little better. I chose you to be my idiot.’

‘Sweet poet, my soul floweth over,’ Grantaire mocked them, a small smile back on his lips, ‘you will never stop telling me that I’m worth friendship, won’t you?’

‘Never,’ Jehan lifted a hand and rested it against Grantaire’s cheek, ‘now, I need you to smile. Enjolras will see you looking miserable as sin, otherwise, and we wouldn’t want that.’

Grantaire refrained from pointing out that Enjolras had other, better things to do than to pay him any attention. He was, after all, the one of his friends who had chosen to sit in the back rows instead of the front where he could show his support openly.

Jehan disappeared from his side when Enjolras disappeared back behind the scenes, Bahorel offered his protection as they used the last five minutes to scout through what was left at the charity stands. Their hair glistened under the soft light, Bahorel’s arm around their shoulders made them seem even smaller and more fragile than they came across as. Grantaire scooted around the statue he had hidden behind to catch a glimpse at his best friends. It seemed like Bousset had successfully nicked a few baked goods off Musichetta’s table, his cheeks were a little too swollen and Joly looked as if he was trying to scold him for something. Grantaire smiled at their antics. Too often, Joly would take on a mother hen role for Bousset who otherwise would undoubtedly have burned down several academy buildings by accident. Being his boyfriend was a full-time job, according to Joly who would never allow anyone else to try and talk him into letting Bousset take responsibility for his accidents. Seeing him next to Bousset, his glasses almost slipping off his nose because he used one hand to hold a plate of purchased macaroons and the other to hold onto his cane, made Grantaire ache a little. Joly’s hair was a mess and his knees not the strongest but he loved Bousset, anyone could see that.

Musichetta joined them and said something on the quiet that made Bousset’s eyes sparkle. She probably offered them more leftovers, Grantaire thought and decided to re-join the audience. He got up from his spot on the ground and stretched his stiff joints out. There were only a few people left walking around the foyer, he slipped behind a small flock of patrons to re-enter the hall in their shadow.

Sliding into his seat, he pulled nervously on the hem of his shirt and tried to keep his head as low as possible. Someone mentioned having donated to the packed lunch project in passing and he could not help but feel his heart flutter. Claquesous would take the piss out of you, he told himself, you’re growing soft after all. It took more than a simple realisation for him to consider himself an activist but he could understand what Enjolras felt when he implemented a change, small as it may have been, around the campus. It paid off to have an idea of where to do good.

People returned to their seats around him and Grantaire made room for them to pass him. With his feet tucked under the chair he smiled tightly at the elderly couples pushing past him with apologetic glances.

It took all of them a few minutes to settle back into their seats. Combeferre was in quiet conversation with dean Valjean and Professor Lamarque who had come down from their box to join Enjolras, Montparnasse and their fellow judges on the stage. Going by their expressions, they had had an entertaining evening despite their own obligations as judges, Lamarque waved at Enjolras who actually smiled back, holding on to a sheet of paper, squeezing it tightly in his hands.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Combeferre left Valjean and Lamarque, stepping back to the centre of the stage, ‘Welcome back for the final announcement of tonight. Shortly, we will announce the winner of _Les Amis de l’ABC_ ’s musical duel. Once again, I would like to appeal to you, give generously, everything goes to charity. Now, for our final announcement, I would like to ask Monsieur Jean Valjean to take the stage. Monsieur Valjean, as dean of our esteemed academy, how would you describe tonight’s event?’

Grantaire smiled softly. Cosette was the first to clap, jumping up in the first row. Marius followed her example, and a moment later, the first two rows were standing, being made up of _Les Amis_ and academy students. Dean Valjean calmed the masses with an easy smile and his raised hands as he joined Combeferre.

‘Thank you for having me as a judge tonight, and another thank you directed to everybody who donated and bought from what our amazing students offered. It has been a musical pleasure to be here and enjoy the diverse programme we have been treated to. Judging the performances was not an easy job, I can assure you as much. Both Enjolras and Montparnasse came up with splendid pieces that captured the set theme perfectly. At the academy, we enjoy the fine arts for what they are – a way of expression and emotional statement. We have talked at length and discussed what we were looking for in these performances and how the theme was implemented. The decision, once again was not an easy one, the first three rounds were head to head for us. As my esteemed colleague, Professor Lamarque, expressed after the interval, it came down to the unprepared performance. Both of you managed to get us hooked on melody and variation alike,’ he turned to Montparnasse and Enjolras who had taken up positions behind him.

Grantaire joined into the light applause that rippled through the hall. Enjolras looked too collected to pass as relaxed and Montparnasse’s lips were twisted into a smile that was just about too easy to be real.

‘We have come to a conclusion, however,’ Valjean continued as the claps died down, ‘and as much as we regret not being able to crown both our amazing participants winner tonight, we decided that based on skill, emotions conveyed and passion, our winner is –‘

He stopped for a pregnant pause, winking at someone in the front rows. Grantaire wanted to bet it was Cosette, rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed, looking up at her father on the stage with a smile. The pause was interrupted by a single cough and Valjean smiled kindly into the room.

‘Enjolras.’

 _Les Amis_ jumped out of their chair, hugging and jumping on the spot. Valjean turned around and held his hand out for Enjolras to take. Again, applause surged up against the walls of the auditorium as Enjolras stepped to the front of the stage and bowed. Someone whistled and it took Grantaire a moment to realise that it had been Claquesous.

‘What are you doing, Montparnasse will hear you!’

‘Let him, your boy won and you need to celebrate that,’ Claquesous clapped him on the shoulder, ‘you should go up there and give him a nice, tight hug when he comes off the stage.’

Grantaire shook his head, ‘Stop saying things like that. There is no way I am going up there as long as Montparnasse is up there.’

He grabbed his coat and started to put it on, ‘I’m not staying to give anybody the opportunity to make a scene.’

‘Grantaire!’

The shout rang in his ears, drowning out applause, whistles and whooping. Montparnasse had stepped next to Enjolras, his eyes blazing with fury. A slight movement indicated to Grantaire that Bahorel had started to make his way to the back of the room, towards him. His expression was dark enough that everybody jumped out of the way to avoid bumping into him.

‘Grantaire, I owe you,’ Montparnasse sneered into the room, ‘this isn’t over!’

‘Leave it be, Montparnasse,’ Enjolras faced him, his face once again looking as if carved into marble. He looked out onto his opponent, stoically meeting his wild gaze, ‘we duelled, you lost. This was about the quarrel between us, nothing else. Grantaire is not part of this and he will not be dragged into it, walk away and keep your dignity.’

His voice echoed in Grantaire’s ears, clear and icy, his posture upright and sincere. He looked every inch the young aristocrat he tried to sweep under the rug with the same attention he gave to any of his rallies and appeals.

‘It is not over,’ Montparnasse pointed a manicured finger at Enjolras, ‘Just like Hyacinth died of his Apollo’s hands, Grantaire will break in yours. Ask him how long he can keep up the act. He’ll shatter again, disappointment proceeds him wherever he goes. Good luck with that!’

This time, no one could stop Grantaire as he left the auditorium. Bahorel, who had almost reached his row, was left shouting after him. He ran past Musichetta, darted through the foyer, through the entrance and into the street. His sides hurt, his lungs started stinging and his eyes watered in the icy air.

He did not stop until he had reached the dorms, opened his door and fallen down on his bed. For a moment, the darkness rose up to drown him.

Then, a quiet mew came out of the darkest corner and Adonis jumped onto the bed. He prowled around Grantaire, wrapping his tail around his wrist before settling in his lap, curling up into a purring ball. Grantaire combed his fingers through his fur, feeling the tension bleed out of him.

Adonis’ purrs and the soft fur under his hands relaxed him enough to send him to sleep eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you thought of the duel :)


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

He was about to down his first coffee of the day when a knock on the door echoed through the flat. Grantaire stared at the door over his cup, eyes still half-closed with sleep. He waited. Another knock rattled the door.

‘R?’ Bousset closed his robe as he stepped into the hallway, blinking against the light falling into his eyes, ‘Who’s that, why aren’t you answering?’

‘No idea,’ Grantaire slurped a sip of coffee, ‘I don’t want to open the door.’

‘Why?’

‘It could be someone I don’t want to see.’

‘Did you check your phone since last night?’ Bousset yawned, ‘Did you get any messages?’

‘Shut it off last night, didn’t want to get notifications,’ Grantaire refilled his cup from the machine.

Bousset opened the door with an eye roll and peeked outside, ‘Morning, Claquesous. Grantaire’s in the kitchen, go pester him. Did you bring breakfast?’

Claquesous patted him on the shoulder and stepped into the flat, his hair back in his face, ‘I’m not going to be long, don’t worry. P-M are going to return to the studio. We had a very long, intense discussion last night and set Montparnasse an ultimatum. If he doesn’t get his act together, we will start looking for a new singer. Voices can be replaced, after all. It actually shut him up for a minute and he hasn’t recovered quite yet. I just wanted to apologise and pass on apologies from Babet and Geuelemer. They felt we owe you after everything. And what I wanted to add is… I’m sorry. I’m sorry for pushing you last night, and for making you feel bad. Of course it should be your decision whether you talk about what happened and who to tell.’

He held out a bottle of Scotch, ‘It’s a good one, I am told. Babet said for you to enjoy it. He also said that you found someone good and you should invite him to the wedding, he offered P-M as wedding band. Without ‘Parnasse, of course.’

Grantaire smiled weakly, ‘Thanks, ‘Sous. It’s appreciated. Give me a shout when you’re back in town, will you?’

‘Sure,’ Claquesous threw him a salute, ‘take care of yourself, R. You don’t have to think about Montparnasse, okay? Concentrate on your art, show everybody what you can do with a brush and a bit of paint. Let me know when you get another exhibition going. And don’t sell the original print you used for the posters.’

‘Pardon?’ Grantaire blinked at him, mouth hanging open, ‘what do you mean?’

‘Come on, I will always recognise your work. Those posters you used to promote the duel with, that was your hand. Don’t sell the original, I want that for my flat.’

‘Sure,’ Grantaire nodded, ‘I’ll keep it for you.’

Claquesous pushed his hair out of his face and put an arm around him, ‘Nice. See you around.’

He opened the door, only to turn around a last time, ‘It was for a good cause, Grantaire. Montparnasse might not see it but Enjolras does. Keep him around, he’s a good egg.’

Bousset closed the door after him with a grin, ‘Look at that, will you? Scotch from _Patron-Minette_ and the promise to buy one of your pictures!’

He grabbed the bottle from Grantaire’s hand and studied the label, ‘And it really is not a cheap one, too. We should open this one tonight with dinner.’

‘It’s your and Joly’s date night.’

‘Exactly,’ Bousset grinned, ‘it’s called alcoholism prevention. If Joly and I drink it, you won’t. Oh, by the way, Musichetta’s joining us later.’

Grantaire stopped in his tracks, ‘Musichetta? I thought it was date night?’

‘Exactly,’ Bousset blushed and fiddled with the string of his robe,’ uhm, Joly and I invited her?’

‘What exactly did I miss?’ Grantaire pushed himself onto the kitchen counter, swinging his legs, ‘and when did it happen?’

‘She invited us after the birthday dinner and we got along pretty well. It got a bit awkward for a moment when Joly was afraid I would leave him for ‘Chetta but then we spoke about it and admitted that both of us liked her. Yesterday, we managed to ask her to join us. She agreed and we’re going to give it a try. Turns out, she likes us both,’ Bousset crossed his arms over his chest, ‘and neither Joly’s knee nor my butterfingers seem to change that.’

Grantaire could not stop the laugh from bursting out of him, ‘You guys are just amazing! Wow, that really is something to celebrate – who would have thought! I expect regular updates, of course!’

‘Thanks for not yelling at us or calling us perverts.’

‘Hey, did someone do that?’ Grantaire felt his smile drop off his face, ‘Do I have to punch someone?’

‘No, thank you. Although, I appreciate it. You’re truly getting back into your old form, you’ll be fighting again, soon.’

‘I don’t plan on doing that –‘

‘Oh come on,’ Joly came out of their bedroom, ‘you’ll remember the pocket money sooner or later. And don’t you think Enjolras would appreciate you showing passion or a black eye?’

‘What Enjolras would or would not appreciate is not part of the potential discussion, should I decide to fight professionally again.’

‘You should do a charity fight against Baz,’ Bousset giggled and hid his face in Joly’s shoulder, ‘I would pay so much money to see Baz pummel you into the mat.’

‘I’ll have you know that he still can’t do that,’ Grantaire recaptured the bottle of Scotch and stored it in the cabinet, ‘and now excuse me please, I have work to get to.’

He stuck his tongue out at them for good measure. Since he had just about finished his coffee and soggy breakfast cereals, he felt almost ready to take on the day ahead. With a double shift at the museum he had volunteered for to allow one of his colleagues to go out with her parents, his day was almost completely planned out already. It also meant that he needed to think about his lunch and dinner before leaving since his break would not allow for a tour to the supermarket or a deli. He kept protein bars in his nightstand drawer and could buy something else on his way to the museum.

Before he left, he checked his academical email inbox and found an announcement about the new pieces to be exhibited in the dorm hallways, foyer and staircase would be put up over the day. Someone in the art department had sent an accidental blanket email by answering to the student assistant who had sent the first email. The topic, a request to notify the chosen artists whether their pieces had been picked, made him roll his eyes. The pictures were never announced ahead, they were just put up for everybody to see. Some people just never learned how to switch off ‘respond to all.’

He went to grab his bag from under the desk and found a cat toy that gave off a squeak when his hand hit it. The unexpected sound made him jump and hit his head on the underside of the table top.

‘Bloody shit,’ he hissed and crawled out from the cave his desk sometimes seemed to turn into, just to find Adonis staring at him out of big, dark eyes, ‘are you happy? God, you’re no better than Apollo, making me uncomfortable…’

He threw the toy onto the bed which coaxed a meow out of the cat, ‘Yeah, now you complain. I should really take that toy away from you for a day.’

Adonis mewled pitifully and pawed at the toy. Grantaire rubbed one finger over his head, smiling at the way the cat leaned into the touch.

‘You little rascal. Keep an eye on my stuff whilst I’m gone, okay?’

Adonis followed him into the kitchen and watched as he poured cat food into his bowl. Purring approvingly, he started to prowl around his legs.

‘See you tonight, furry nuisance,’ Grantaire smiled, ‘scratch Bousset, if you like. He deserves it.’

Adonis ignored him, too occupied with his food already.

***

He passed quite a few of the posters he had printed for the duel. The shadows lingering over piano silhouettes followed him to the museum and haunted him there since he had put leaflets almost everywhere. He set about collecting them during the first half hour at work, ending up with a whole bundle in his hands that he threw away without another look back.

By the time he had finished his first round, gathering flyers and taking down the few posters he had actually dared to put up around the museum, the first tours started out around the museum. Grantaire took his place in the corner of the romanticism wing, notebook in hand and a pencil behind his ear. He was ready to be struck by inspiration.

Until lunch, he had followed up on several alarms triggered by bored children for fun, answered even more questions from interested couples and directed stray visitors towards the wings they were looking for with the help of the map he kept in the pocket of his uniform. He had just about settled back into the stool he had propped up in a corner after wolfing down a sandwich in the staff room, when a voice over his intercom informed him that someone had asked for him at the front desk.

‘Who is it this time?’ he asked, sighing into his radio.

His colleague at the front desk giggled softly, ‘The poet and seemingly, a lion.’

Grantaire groaned and left his place in the Romanticism wing and crossed the Early Modernism to get to the front hall. Jehan waved at him hard enough to make their entire body move, their hair was loose and carelessly pushed behind his ears. They looked colourful enough to pass as an artwork themself, stood in front of the poster of the special exhibition of the seventies-artist they showed in the refurbished rooms. Next to them, his hands buried in his pockets, blond curls peeking out from under a beanie, stood Enjolras. He seemed to study one of the leaflets they kept at the front desk, advertisements and information of other exhibitions, galleries and museums around town.

‘Morning,’ Grantaire threw them a lazy salute, ‘what are you doing here?’

Jehan hugged him, throwing his arms around him. His patchy, colourful poncho wiped across Grantaire’s face. It was soft, woollen and undeniably warm.

‘We are here to visit you, can’t you see that?’ they kissed his cheek, ‘Enjolras needed to be taken out of the house. He was a bit tense, Courf and Ferre asked me to walk him.’

‘I’m not a dog,’ Enjolras turned around completely, glaring daggers at Jehan, ‘and I agreed because you promised me breakfast or lunch. I haven’t seen a single snack yet.’

‘Ouch,’ Grantaire sighed and clasped his hand over his heart, ‘must you hurt me like that?’

Enjolras’ head whipped around, ‘You –‘

He broke off, blinking at Grantaire, ‘You’re wearing a uniform.’

‘Yeah, are you alright?’

‘I didn’t know you wore a uniform at work,’ Enjolras tried to shake off a stupor that had seemingly grasped him.

‘Well, I do,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘What, too elitist and forced into line for you?’

‘No, that’s not it,’ Enjolras cleared his throat and smoothed down a curl that had escaped from underneath the beanie, ‘You look nice.’

‘Thank you,’ Grantaire smiled weakly, ‘any particular reason you had me called down from work?’

‘Not really, no,’ Jehan grinned at him, ‘just wanted to say ‘hi’ and show Enjolras around. He has managed to life here for years without ever going through the museum in its entirety.’

‘We could not have that, of course,’ Grantaire grinned and nodded for them to follow him, ‘start with the special exhibition and go round chronologically afterwards. Come see me in the Romantics section later.’

‘Really R, the Romantics again?’

‘It’s my assigned spot.’

‘R, both of us know you could just go somewhere else. You just like to look at the pictures all day,’ Jehan patted his shoulder, ‘now, I just wanted to warn you. Enjolras, follow me!’

They grabbed his hand and pulled him along. Enjolras grinned back at him for a moment longer before they rounded the corner and disappeared. Grantaire shook his head and turned to the till. His colleague smiled at him, her eyes glazed over.

‘Grantaire, you never mentioned your friends were that hot,’ she mouthed, ‘can you introduce us?’

Grantaire groaned and returned to his post next to the doorway in the Romantics section. An elderly couple read the inscription next to the Delacroix, a group of teenagers stood around the picture of a goddess emerging after a bath and two students of the academy sat in a corner, sketching the artwork on the walls.

He, too, got his sketchbook out of his pocket and started a study of the bust of Victor Hugo that had been placed on a board across from the bathing goddess from where he could oversee the room. It amused Grantaire that someone had thought this to be the best position for him, even though half of the museum’s visitors would not get the joke.

‘Grantaire – good to find you here!’ Madame Lacombe, the curator, approached him with quick steps in her high heels, ‘I have a bone to pick with you.’

‘Madame?’ he blinked up at her and put his pencil away, ‘how can I be of service?’

‘Care to explain what has happened to you throughout the last two months? I have been getting reports of people praising your behaviour, attitude and helpfulness. Now, I do agree that the mentions we got before that were alright but now they are full of praise. I am just interested what started this new outlook on life and work ethic.’

‘I’m sorry, Madame, I don’t know what you mean,’ Grantaire shrugged.

He saw Jehan and Enjolras enter through the other door. Enjolras immediately strode towards a picture of the revolutionary council. It seemed like his eyes lit up at the sight of the faces of the revolutionaries gathered around their papers and bills. Grantaire chuckled quietly at the sight, catching Jehan’s eye and nodding towards their friend.

Madame Lacombe followed his gaze, pursed her lips and returned her attention to Grantaire, ‘Seems like I found the reason. Your friend is known around town. _Les Amis de l’ABC_ , isn’t that correct? He won the musical duel last night.’

‘That’s accurate,’ Grantaire looked at her, curious as to what she could mean, ‘were you there?’

She nodded sharply, ‘These students follow a good cause. Are you with them?’

Grantaire straightened and nodded, ‘They are a tightly woven group of upstanding young people, I don’t think I fit their standards but they suffer my presence.’

His boss met him with an unimpressed look, ‘Well, your attitude has changed. Use your new ties and think of the museum. You might think of something for which you will need some rooms.’

‘You are offering us the museum for the cause, should it arise?’

‘Keep up the good work,’ Madame Lacombe turned on her heels and stalked out of the room, gifting a tight-lipped smile to some museum visitors.

‘Great,’ Grantaire grumbled and rolled his eyes, ‘hi there, long time no see.’

Jehan winked at him and pointed at Enjolras who studied the details of the picture, ‘He found out about the French paintings and insisted on skipping almost everything else. Curious enough though, he only looked up French pictures in here after I mentioned getting to see you again in the Romantics wing.’

‘Keep your thoughts to yourself,’ Grantaire nudged them in the side, ‘I can smell your smug self-satisfaction, you know.’

Jehan pushed him towards Enjolras with a grin. Grantaire threw him a sourly look before joining Enjolras in front of the medium sized painting.

‘Hey, enjoying yourself?’

‘Yeah, surprisingly, I do,’ Enjolras beamed at him, ‘amazing that you get to work here.’

‘It doesn’t get boring,’ Grantaire grinned, ‘can I answer any of your questions?’

‘This art piece shows the council, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, you can see Robespierre over there. Snazzy man, that one, his waistcoats are just amazing to look at. Impeccable fashion sense,’ Grantaire looked at the painting which he had studied countless times before, ‘I should get one for myself, shouldn’t I?’

‘I would like to see that,’ Enjolras’ lips turned up in a grin, ‘hey, until when are you working today?’

Grantaire checked his watch, ‘Ten minutes, why?’

‘I don’t suppose you’d like to join Jehan and me to grab a bite before going home?’

‘Sounds amazing. Give me ten minutes to finish my shift and three to get changed but then I’m all yours,’ he did not dare to avert his gaze as Enjolras gifted him another smile, ‘I could kill for something substantial.’

‘Substantial? Jehan insisted on going to a café or confectionary,’ Enjolras pretended to shudder, ‘sugar in its purest form for them.’

‘They are going to bounce off the walls,’ Grantaire sighed, ‘thank god we can just hand them over to Baz at the end of the day.’

‘I suppose, we are rather lucky in that regard,’ Enjolras nodded.

‘What are you talking about?’ Jehan leaned over their shoulders, ‘where we should go in a moment? I know this place that has the nicest meringues and where they put cinnamon in their coffee.’

‘Sounds…disgusting,’ Grantaire turned towards a young woman coming towards them with a map, ’just a few minutes now.’

Time seemed to pass sluggishly after Enjolras and Jehan left him, seconds stretching into several moments and moments into minutes. Finally, Grantaire saw a colleague enter the room to take over from him for the closing shift. He tried to keep the debriefing as short as possible, pointed out a group of teenagers that had come back to the room a few times, triggering the alarms repeatedly before he left, fighting the urge to sprint towards the entrance and the staff room. Madame Lacombe nodded at him as he left a couple of minutes later and Grantaire threw her a salute. The swivel door into freedom almost hit him in the back. Jehan and Enjolras sat on a bench in front of the building, wrapped up in coats and scarfs.

‘There you are,’ Jehan jumped off the bench, ‘Let’s go get hot chocolate!’

Enjolras rolled his eyes behind their back. Grantaire grinned and joined them at the bottom of the stairs.

‘Food?’

‘Food,’ Jehan linked their arms with both of them and started dragging them down the road.

Grantaire and Enjolras allowed them to lead them towards one of their favourite cafés. Jehan was, despite their stature, stronger than anyone would have presumed and once their mind was set on something, they could not be talked out of it.

They stopped jittering when they held a cup of hot chocolate in their hands and sat at a corner table in the small, homely café. It was not too far from the academy and Grantaire had wondered for a moment how he had never thought of entering after all the times he had walked past it on his way to and from work.

‘Did you apply to be displayed in the hallways?’ Enjolras’ question made Grantaire snort into his mug.

‘No, not this time. Even if I had finished something lately, I had so many pieces in the hallways and staircases so far, others deserve the space more than me.’

‘What about your saint? Your Sebastian?’ Enjolras leaned his elbows on the table in front of them, ‘that looked finished last time I peeked into your studio.’

‘Or the big one,’ Jehan clasped their hand around Grantaire’s arm, ‘what about the picture of the sea and –‘

‘Never!’ Grantaire heard the blood rush in his ears, ‘that one will never see anything but my studio or Lafayette’s office.’

‘Has he still got it?’ Jehan stared at him intently, ‘I thought you’d gotten your mark already.’

‘I did,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘I think he liked looking at it. Who knows, I might be able to sell it to him.’

‘But would you like him to have the view?’

Enjolras cleared his throat, ‘I have no idea what you two are talking about. Care to undeceive me?’

‘Grantaire painted a really special painting and it would be a crime to keep it in a dusty office or in his studio forever,’ Jehan turned to face him, ‘I think everyone of us fell in love with it when we saw it.’

‘Why wasn’t I allowed to see it?’ Enjolras pouted dramatically, ‘Hey R, I love your art.’

‘Thank you,’ Grantaire threw Jehan a look, ‘but I handed it in ages ago.’

‘Shame,’ Enjolras got up, ‘I’m getting something to eat.’

‘Jehan, if you don’t stop throwing me under the bus, I will kill you,’ Grantaire threatened and ran his fingers through his hair, ‘you are the worst friend ever.’

‘Thank you, I aim to please,’ they patted his shoulder, ‘why didn’t you show Enjolras the painting?’

‘Has it occurred to you that maybe I painted an idealistic picture of him without his permission and that he might have a problem with that?’

‘You are painting this too black. Everybody around the academy knows that you artists just paint whatever you want.’

‘In that case he just needs to count back and will find out that I painted it before we were even talking,’ Grantaire stirred his cocoa.

‘You worry too much, dear,’ Jehan squeezed his hand, ‘I’ll leave you to it, need to see a man about a horse.’

They got up and patted his head before turning towards the restrooms. Their warm smile making sure that Grantaire did not lose his head until Enjolras came back. He set down two plates on the table, pushing one of them over towards him that carried a piece of Danish pastry that overflowed with custard.

‘Here, for you,’ Enjolras sat back down, grinning over his own pastry, ‘I thought you could do with something sweet after working all day.’

‘Thank you, you are amazing,’ Grantaire lifted the sugary goodness off the plate and sunk his teeth into it. Custard spilled over his fingers and he stuck them into his mouth to lick it off, ‘this is amazing.’

Enjolras laughed, a breathy sound, and when Grantaire looked back up, he found his friend staring at him with a smile, ‘Thank you.’

‘What for? What did I do?’ Grantaire blinked at him.

‘Yesterday. I know it wasn’t easy for you to come which made it even more important to me that you were there. Your support was very much appreciated,’ Enjolras smiled even wider, ‘winning was a confirmation of my skill, but seeing you there, in the room, despite Montparnasse’s presence was just as reassuring. I’m sorry, you were right about it, though. I’m sorry he used the stage to talk about you the way he did. You deserve better than that.’

Grantaire felt his throat tighten a little, ‘Thank you. You play beautifully but you know that, of course. I get why my mother chose you as her prodigy.’

‘Stop it,’ Enjolras’ cheeks were tinted pink, ‘she’s got you!’

Grantaire scolded himself for bringing her up, inner masochism getting the better of him, yet again. He smiled at Enjolras and took another bite out of his pastry which tasted of summer berries despite the cold outside.

‘Do you think it’s going to snow soon?’

‘Hopefully.’

They stared out of the window for a few minutes until Jehan came back, ‘Did you guys have a nice chat? Oh, pastry!’

They looked at the plate in front of Grantaire and he could see something light up in their eyes, ‘Back off, Enjolras got me that one.’

‘Did he now?’ Something else twinkled in Jehan’s eyes as they dipped a finger in the icing dripping of the pastry, ‘How very generous of him.’

Enjolras rolled his eyes at them but something fond, almost resembling a smile, toyed with the corners of his mouth. He pushed a curl out of his face and under his beanie before sticking his tongue out at Jehan. For a moment, they grinned at each other and exchanged glances. Then, as if someone had flicked a switch, Grantaire went back to finishing up his pastry, Enjolras pulled his phone from his pocket and Jehan started to scribble lines on their forearm.

‘Hey, I’m sorry…it’s just, we’re closing for the day,’ the young barista leaned over the table, an apologetic smile on her lips, peak customer service trained mask.

‘Golly, is it that late already?’ Jehan bounced out of their seat, beaming at her, ‘we’ll be out your hair in a second.’

They were out in the street and on their way back to the academy within minutes. Jehan skipped ahead, leaving Enjolras and Grantaire to try not to knock each other off the pavement and into the street whilst walking next to each other.

‘This day wasn’t too bad,’ Enjolras mumbled, ‘I didn’t even get bored.’

‘Don’t count your chickens before they hatch,’ Grantaire retorted, ‘plenty can go wrong still.’

‘I would like to be optimistic,’ he winked at him, ‘do you wanna come by my music room tonight? With the duel over I can finally go back to playing what I like for fun. You could show me what you’ve been working on so far.’

Grantaire shook his head, ‘It’s nothing special and not nice enough to show anyone. Believe me…’

He could hear Jehan scoff from the front and saw them shake their head softly. Choosing to ignore them, Grantaire continued to push a pebble along the pavement. It occupied him until they reached the academy. He deposited of the pebble on the threshold, watching, as it skipped across the street.

‘Are you coming?’ Enjolras waited, holding the door open for him, ‘are you going to have something proper for dinner, more than a pastry?’

‘I will, Joly and Bousset usually keep something for me when I come back late. Don’t worry, Apollo,’ he slipped through the gap in the door and readjusted his bag over his shoulder, ‘I won’t starve.’

Enjolras merely closed the door behind them, ‘It’s better to ask. You never know.’

Grantaire was prepared to remark something in return but stopped in his tracks when he almost ran into the back of the crowd that occupied most of the foyer, ‘Bloody hell, what happened here? Did someone strip naked and lounge on the sofas again?’

He got a few laughs before one of the students turned around and resolved, ‘The new pictures are up and one of them is rumoured to be even better than what they usual pick.’

‘Curious,’ Grantaire lifted his eyebrows, ‘and all I want is go upstairs and sleep.’

‘Hey R,’ Marius and Cosette waved at them and started walking towards them, ‘it looks amazing.’

‘What does?’

‘The painting of course! I thought you’d said you would not hand in a picture for display,’ Marcus slapped Grantaire’s shoulder, ‘it’s marvellous, of course, but no one expected anything else from you.’

‘Marius, what are you talking about?’ Grantaire shook his head, ‘I didn’t hand in anything and even if I did, I have been exhibited way too often in the hallways, anyway.’

‘Then who painted this?’ Feuilly joined them, pointing towards the bare stretch of wall opposite from the entrance that held the blackboard to one side and some posters of extracurricular events and activities, ‘looks pretty much like the sketches Jehan has in their living room.’

A few people moved in front of them and allowed them to see the large-scale, gold framed painting that decked half of the wall. Grantaire felt his stomach drop to his knees. _Catch Me I’m Falling_ , his masterpiece, the dream turned fantasy, displayed in front of the whole lyceum. The light figure, smile hidden behind long hair that caught both sunshine and threateningly dark clouds, the ideal haunting his quiet moments, exposed to the public of their living quarters.

He did not dare to look at Enjolras who had uttered a quiet curse, did not dare to move, could not muster up the strength to run away, upstairs and hide from the world, no matter how much he wished to. Instead, he witnessed how dozens of academy students inspected what he had left in professor Lafayette’s office to never be exhibited where Enjolras could see it.

Then, as if the evening had not already taken a turn for the worse, Bousset spotted him from the front and started clapping and pointing at him, ‘There he is! The creator of the masterpiece!’

Grantaire felt tears prick in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think :)


	25. Chapter Twenty-Five

Adonis seemed to sense his turmoil the moment he entered the flat. The tomcat jumped off the windowsill and padded towards him, tail stretched into the air like a bottlebrush. He meowed quietly, leaning against his leg, a pitiful sound in the otherwise empty flat.

‘Hey, mate,’ Grantaire exhaled, sitting down on the floor to pet him, ‘yeah, I’m fine, how are you? Well? That’s good to hear…’

Adonis hissed and turned to the door, eyes glistening and narrowing down towards it. Grantaire sighed, wiping over his eyes with his sleeve.

‘No need lurking outside, come on in already,’ he called out, petting Adonis’ back.

Jehan opened the door, came in and sat down next to him. They wore an expression he could not pinpoint.

‘I’m not going to ask whether you’re okay because you’re evidently not,’ they placed a hand on his shoulder, ‘I just – someone needs to be there for you right now. Tell me what happened? Something wrong with the picture?’

‘Wrong?’ Grantaire shook his head, ‘It’s not supposed to be there, I didn’t hand it in to be displayed and it should gather dust in Lafayette’s office, nothing else! I did not give my approval of an exhibition, there was an actual reason behind why I only drew it for a fucking grade!’

Jehan rubbed his back, ‘You could write something, explain it and the intention behind it? I’m sure Lafayette wouldn’t have a problem with that until he is back in his office on Monday.’

‘My point is that I did not have Enjolras’ consent to paint the picture. I just painted it with no intention of it ever been seen by him. Lafayette went behind my back by putting it up for the exhibition,’ Grantaire curled his fingers in Adonis’ fur and ran them through it.

‘Oh love,’ Jehan moved closer and put their arms around him, ‘doesn’t that count as artistic license? You guys get to paint whatever you like –‘

‘I painted this almost two months ago and started it before I had even talked to him for the first time. He’s not an idiot, he can count two and two together and make the connection between the huge painting I kept covered whenever he came in and the picture identified as mine today. Feuilly has a wonderful eye for art and art styles but he basically told Enjolras that I really painted that one.’

‘What is it called again?’

‘ _Catch Me I’m Falling_ ,’ Grantaire turned his head to hide his face in Jehan’s hair, ‘fucking ironic, isn’t it? I don’t think he should ever talk to me again if he has a bit of self-awareness. Who would want to talk with their stalker?’

‘You are not a stalker,’ Jehan squeezed his shoulder and moved a little, readjusting their legs, ‘you are an artist who got inspired. People have made art for other people for ages! Take Beethoven, he wrote _Für Elise_ because he had a crush on her!’

‘Yeah, no one knows who he wrote it for,’ Grantaire snuffled, ‘it could be that he wrote it out of spite because they couldn’t play the piano well enough to perform it, it could be –‘

‘You’re not getting my point,’ Jehan ran their fingers through his tangled hair soothingly, ‘portraits of crushes and loved ones aren’t a new thing, music written about people isn’t a new thing and do I even have to start talking about poetry? I have written an entire anthology of mushy poems about almost everything about Bahorel. I could show you poems about his hair, arms, eyes, lips and the freckles on his shoulders.’

‘Baz has freckles on his shoulders?’

‘Very faint ones you can only see if you know where to look,’ Jehan shook their head, ‘thank you for distracting from the point again.’

Grantaire leant against them and allowed them to comb through his hair. Neither of them said a word for a few minutes, Jehan detangled Grantaire’s hair that had suffered from a day at work and the hair ties that kept it out of his face. Their fingers sorted through strands and tangles, made quick work of the knots and got rid of tangles. Grantaire still petted Adonis, feeling the anxiety leave through his fingertips until he was less tense.

‘How are you doing with being a dad?’ Jehan’s smile was audible, ‘Adonis seems happy.’

‘He’s a cat,’ Grantaire closed his eyes, ‘he’ll be alright. I feed him, pet him, play with him and he gets to sleep in my room – or leave, my window’s always open anyways.’

‘You’re a good dad.’

‘Speaking of which, I still need to feed him. He reminds us when we don’t do it, he scratched Bossuet recently.’

‘Oh the poor baby,’ Jehan reached past Grantaire to pet Adonis, ‘he’s going to feed you as soon as I’m done with his hair, promise.’

Adonis meowed in response, got up and stretched his legs. He strutted off into the kitchen and a moment later he could be heard lapping up water.

‘And we will need to feed you as well, kitty-daddy.’

‘Please don’t say that ever again,’ Grantaire groaned, ‘Joly and Bossuet left me some of their lunch. They are out tonight.’

‘Is it date night again?’ Jehan started stroking his hair, ‘what are they doing tonight?’

‘Going out with Musichetta.’

‘With Musichetta – what did we miss there?’

‘A budding romance,’ Grantaire grinned carefully, ‘I might end up having to deal with three cuddling lovebirds instead of two.’

‘You are welcome to come by whenever you need a break.’

‘And watch you and Baz? No, thank you,’ Grantaire shook his head and received a light slap to the shoulder, ‘okay, I’m sorry. You guys are just toothrottingly sweet.’

‘You know we are. And you will get to draw our wedding painting,’ Jehan pulled their fingers out of Grantaire’s hair, ‘okay, get food!’

‘Aye-aye, captain,’ Grantaire got up and stretched his arms over his legs.

‘You look just like your son,’ Jehan giggled and followed him into the kitchen, ‘what is for dinner then?’

Grantaire opened the fridge, ‘Sandwiches.’

He turned around to find Jehan staring at him with stern eyes, ‘Sandwiches? I hope you’re joking – you had sandwiches for lunch and a pastry in the afternoon. That’s it, you’re coming over now, for dinner.’

‘Am I?’ Grantaire slammed the fridge door shut and grabbed the cat food instead, ‘who’s in charge of dinner tonight?’

‘Bahorel,’ Jehan grinned at him, ‘and I think he was going to make a veggie stir-fry.’

Grantaire felt his mouth water with anticipation. Bahorel’s cooking, his stir-fry in particular, was legendary amongst them and regularly attracted visitors to Jehan and his flat when word got out that he was cooking.

‘Okay, I’ll join you,’ he took his sketchpad and pencils out of his bag, opened it on one of the first pages and held it out for Jehan, ‘here, by the way, that’s how it started.’

He showed them the first sketch he had drawn before starting the painting. It had started out with a study, the figure had averted their face, hair covered what could have given any identity away.

‘I decided to picture his face later on. All this mess could have been avoided if I had stuck to my initial plan,’ he shook his head, ‘I brought this upon myself and now I have to deal with it.’

‘Oh Grantaire,’ Jehan put a hand on his arm, ‘don’t say that. The painting is beautiful as it is and Enjolras had better be proud to have been your muse for it. If he isn’t, send him to come and see me, okay?’

‘Sure, Jehan, no one messes with you, isn’t that right?’

‘Not as long as they don’t want to deal with Bahorel as well,’ they opened the door for Grantaire, ‘don’t forget your keys, wouldn’t want to disturb the boys later.’

Grantaire rolled his eyes and took his keys from the counter. He followed Jehan down the corridor and into their apartment. There were still people out and he could hear the bustle downstairs, voices chattering and discussing. In his mind they were all talking about _Catch Me I’m Falling_ , gossiping about his brushwork and imagery.

‘I brought in a guest for tonight, Bahorel, hope that’s okay,’ Jehan called out and dropped their jacket on the ground just behind the door, ‘little beaten up emotionally but otherwise alright.’

‘So, Grantaire’s back in time for dinner?’ Bahorel waved from the kitchen, ‘hey can you pass me my phone? The group chat has blown up and I have no idea what that all was about.’

Jehan took his phone and unlocked it, their eyebrows shot up after reading the messages for a few seconds, ‘Well, nothing new there. You haven’t been out today, I guess?’

‘No, not much, why? Has something happened?’

‘R’s picture got exhibited,’ Jehan snatched a stick of carrot from the cutting board, ‘since when do you put carrot in this? Oh, and it’s the huge one he painted of Enjolras, the one he wouldn’t let him see? Well, he didn’t have his consent to paint him and Lafayette put it up without asking R. Big drama. Oh, and according to this, Courfeyrac and Feuilly are absolutely obsessed with it. They must have written about half of all these messages.’

‘Feuilly was downstairs,’ Grantaire said quietly, ‘he immediately recognised my style. I didn’t even know I had one.’

‘Impressionistic Realism,’ Bahorel muttered, ‘also, the carrots are nibbles. I know how hungry you get before I finish cooking, go wild. Grantaire, lay the table. No moping until after dinner. I’m going to hug you later.’

Grantaire saluted mockingly and got plates out of the cupboard. For a moment, they worked side by side, Bahorel finishing off the stir fry, Grantaire setting the table and Jehan shifting carrot sticks and checking their phone.

‘Enjolras is looking for suggestions for the next project,’ they announced and hopped off the counter a few minutes later, ‘”after the success of the duel we will have to notch up our performance,” he sounds every bit the leader, doesn’t he? No dissuading him from his cause.’

‘Thanks, Jehan, I needed to hear that right now,’ Grantaire set down the glasses and stuffed his hands into his pockets to keep them from shaking, ‘I only just endured seeing Montparnasse again, the last thing I want right now is to think about how we could kindle Enjolras’ obsession with humanitarian goodness by pathological world improving.’

‘Jeez,’ Jehan rolled their eyes, ‘calm your horses. Give it a thought, you are an official part of the group and what you suggest will be heard. Your ideas aren’t even bad.’

‘Thank you, you are a true friend,’ Grantaire sat down at the table and crossed his arms, ‘I think I’ll steer clear of the group meetings for a bit.’

‘Don’t you dare,’ Bahorel set down the pan on a dinner mat and handed him a ladle, ‘go ahead, guests first. Take now before Jehan gets his hands on it – or anybody else.’

‘Do you mean before anybody else gets their hands on the food or Jehan on anybody else?’

‘Who knows,’ Bahorel grinned, sat down and pulled Jehan in for a deep kiss.

‘Gross, not at the dinner table, guys,’ Grantaire tried to kick them under the table but seemed to miss, no matter how well he aimed.

‘Doesn’t matter, start eating,’ Jehan waved him off, ‘we’ll be with you in a moment.’

‘Yeah, I can see that, you have some deep digging to do,’ Grantaire started eating his portion of the stir fry, effectively ignoring the two people eating each other up on the other side of the table.

The food was amazing, Bahorel had perfected the recipe over time and turned it into something everybody enjoyed eating. Once Jehan and Bahorel joined him and started eating with cutlery and off plates, their conversation turned back to the amount of shifts and work Grantaire tried to cram into his schedule.

‘It’s because we get the Christmas bonus once the holidays start and families are expected to come in. Looking after kids gets paid better than making sure no pensioners get lost in the special exhibition,’ Grantaire helped himself to a second portion.

‘Just make sure you don’t take any shifts on the last day. We wouldn’t want you missing out on the Dean’s Prize,’ Bahorel winked at him, ‘we also wouldn’t want to deprive your mother of an opportunity to sniff at your presence at your academy.’

‘She’ll find another reason once I have left, I’m sure of it.’

‘Speaking of your mother,’ Jehan set their glass down, ‘what are you going to do once Enjolras wants to be introduced?’

‘Bold of you to assume it’s ever going to come to that,’ Grantaire shook his head, ‘have you got any wine?’

‘You don’t do wine.’

‘Tonight I might, though. It might be time for me to get totally smashed.’

‘In that case, you’ll find an open bottle of white wine in the fridge. For red wine you will have to open the bottle we keep in the medicine cabinet.’

Grantaire got up and left the room to go check the cabinet in the bathroom. He found the bottle, sent a quick thank you to the heavens and returned to the table.

‘So – you’re getting drunk tonight?’

‘Are you going to try and stop me?’

‘No, I know better than doing that,’ Jehan shook their head, ‘you’re not working tomorrow, right?’

‘Nope, no obligations,’ Grantaire uncorked the bottle and poured the wine into his glass, ‘I can drink as much as I want and sleep in tomorrow. It’s perfect, isn’t it?’

‘If you say so.’

A knock on the door interrupted the beginning discussion. Jehan got up to open it, leaving Bahorel and Grantaire to sit in silence.

‘Hi Marius, nice to see you guys.’

‘Cosette insisted she could smell Bahorel’s cooking. We brought you chocolate, though.’

‘Always welcome. Come in, grab some plates and help yourselves.’

Cosette came in and waved at them, ‘Hi Baz, hello Grantaire. How are you, R?’

‘As good as can be expected under the circumstances,’ Grantaire lifted his glass, ‘I suppose you heard of –‘

‘The painting? It’s amazing, R! I was a little surprised you didn’t show it to us earlier but it looks absolutely beautiful, you caught a moment within a dream and captured it on canvas,’ Marius sat down next to him and gave him an awkward smile.

‘Is it true that Lafayette put it up without checking with you?’ Cosette set down a plate for her boyfriend.

‘How -?’

‘News like that travel fast, my dear,’ she patted his shoulder, ‘also, the group chat did pretty much overheat my phone earlier.’

‘Jehan was very communicative.’

‘So much for smelling my cooking,’ Bahorel shot his partner a look, ‘did you tell everybody?’

‘I only posted a small recap of today’s events, forgive me for actually answering people’s questions,’ Jehan shrugged, ‘we are friends after all.’

‘And it didn’t hurt when Enjolras intervened, right?’ Marius smiled cautiously, ‘He pointed out how –‘

‘Thank you, Marius,’ Cosette placed a hand on his and rubbed his wrist with her thumb, ‘I think we get the idea. Jehan was kind enough to elaborate on how the situation came to be.’

Grantaire poured himself a second glass of wine and emptied it in few gulps, only to refill it immediately. His friends moved on, talking about other academy gossip and whatever went on in their lives. He could drown it out easily, only concentrating on the wine in his hand.

The bottle did not hold up for long after he got started on it and within minutes, he felt the fog take over and cloud his brain. His resolution to build up his resistance to wine had once again been abandoned over more important things. As every time before, he regretted not having concentrated on it when he realised that his eqilibrioception could no longer tell whether he was sitting, standing or lying down.

‘Grantaire?’ Cosette nudged him, ‘Are you going to be okay going home?’

‘I’m living down the corridor,’ he realised just how slurred his speech had become and pushed himself out of his chair, ‘Can I keep the bottle?’

Somebody’s fingers took the bottle from his hand, ‘It’s empty, R, and it’s getting late.’

Bahorel nodded in the background of his blurry vision. Grantaire shrugged and stood up completely. If he was not mistaken, he swayed on his feet, there was no telling.

‘See you when I’m back amongst the living,’ he tried a two-finger-salute and almost poked himself into the eye, shook his head to get rid of some of the fog and eventually found the door.

‘Get home safe,’ Jehan kissed him on the cheek, ‘Please let me know how you feel tomorrow. I’ll happily come over and help you get back on your feet.’

‘You’re a good friend,’ Grantaire leant onto them for a moment, ‘taking care of me when I’m like…this. Pathetic.’

‘I am going to disagree, Grantaire,’ Jehan gave him a sad smile that he wanted to take off their face. Nobody should get Jehan to look as sad as they did but deep down he knew that reason was his behaviour most of the time, ‘Good night!’

He turned around and staggered down the hallway, fumbling for the wall to lean onto. The lights had been switched off and he could not tell just how late it was. A floorboard squeaked under his weight and he pressed a finger to his lips to remind his surroundings to be quiet in case people were already sleeping.

He thought about Bossuet and Joly and Musichetta and hoped they had gone back to wherever Musichetta lived instead of their flat. His dignity could only suffer so many blows before he was bound to end up puking in front of someone who he would rather not see that. More than that, he wished for his bed since he could be sure of his position and location once he lay down and pulled the blanket over himself.

He started looking for his keys three doors down from his to avoid standing in front of the flat like a drunk person looking for their keys. Grantaire congratulated himself for his brilliant idea, giggling into the dark hallway. With his key already in his hand it got a lot easier to pretend to know where the keyhole was, the fumbling was limited to a minimum. The door opened and Grantaire exhaled with relief when he realised that the flat was as dark as the corridor. Joly and Bossuet were out and he could slip into his room without having to answer all the questions he got asked when he came in drunk.

He managed to leave a proper two-finger-salute in the direction of the shadow next to the staircase that was shaped like Enjolras, giggled and shook his head at his accomplishment. Then, he moved through the door, only bumping into the frame once and closed it behind himself. Joly and Bossuet would not have appreciated coming back to an open door, he remembered that from the last time it had happened.

It took him a few more minutes but then he lay in his bed, blankets pulled up to his nose. Adonis had not been in the living room or his bed so he assumed the tomcat outside, checked the window and left it propped open with a bookend before passing out.


	26. Chapter Twenty-Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have cracked 100,000 words!! Thank you to anyone who still reads this, it means a lot to me and after uploading the previous chapter I got a comment that made me honest to god cry a little - Thnak you!!!

He managed to avoid Enjolras for two days, one of them spent in his room, nursing his hangover. Joly and Bossuet had not come back until late afternoon and were not in the mood to talk to him. Neither was he, which left him relieved in the darkness of his room, curled up around his sketchpad, with earbuds in and music turned up. His pencil traced the forms of a face and some flowers around the figure. It was Jehan with a twist, something fragile yet strong dusted on their face. Maybe it was a character from a mystical place, a member of the fae. Grantaire smiled weakly. If one of his friends were part of a fairy court, it would be Jehan. He decided to discard the idea and change the face.

When Joly knocked eventually to let him know that they had prepared some dinner, ‘If you’re interested, Boss and I are pretty proud of the outcome. Musichetta gave us the recipe for a meatball lasagne and we managed to make it without messing up too much.’

‘And you left him in the kitchen? Alone? With the food?’

Joly blinked at him without saying anything for a moment, then, he shrugged and smiled, ‘I trust him.’

Grantaire nodded and grabbed a jumper from his desk chair, ‘Sure, that must keep him from dropping the pan or burn his hands. I’m going to join you in a moment, just need to…well, I was going to say tidy up but we know I won’t.’

‘Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t,’ Joly lifted an eyebrow before turning back around, ‘good, do your stuff. Food’s waiting.’

Grantaire pulled the jumper on and slipped into the bathroom to splash water into his face and wash his hands before dinner. He caught sight of his own face in the mirror and sighed. The dark circles under his eyes were something he could expect on an everyday basis and his hair flopped into his eyes but he only realised how long he had gone without a shave when he saw how dark his chin had gotten. He could feel the stubble against his fingers and groaned.

‘Are you okay in there?’ Bossuet laughed outside the door.

‘You guys didn’t tell me just how much of a beard-situation I have going on,’ he left the bathroom and dried his hands on his shirt.

‘It’s literally in your face, shouldn’t you know?’ Joly shook his head and handed him a warm plate with lasagne, ‘I just thought you were trying a new look.’

‘Because it does suit you, actually,’ Bossuet snaked his arms around Joly’s waist and rested his head on his shoulder, ‘gives you an air of the starving artist. Ruggedly handsome, I would say, and very, very attractive.’

Joly cleared his throat, ‘Which he only gets to say because I know how much he loves me, otherwise I would rage with jealousy and accuse you of cheating on me with Grantaire. Well, nothing I wouldn’t tap.’

‘Thank you,’ Grantaire sat down, ‘I worry more about what other people thought about it. Fuck, I haven’t shaved since before the duel – I faced Montparnasse looking like this? And I went to work yesterday looking like a homeless person!’

‘Oh boy, he’s got anxiety again,’ Bossuet grinned over Joly’s shoulder, ‘Grantaire, it does suit you. It makes you look nice, actually. Appreciate this for once. I’m sure people liked the way you look right now. Did anyone tell you that you should change it?’

‘No, because no one is that rude.’

‘Did you, by any chance, get a compliment?’

Grantaire shook his head and set down his plate, ‘Enjolras likes my uniform at work but that has probably changed now.’

‘Oh yes,’ Joly loosened Bossuet’s arms around his body, ‘I wanted to talk about that, actually.’

They sat down with him and Bossuet turned his attention to the food on his plate. Joly, however stared at Grantaire until he had chewed down the first few bites of his lasagne.

‘So, Jehan sent me a lengthy voice message last night about your painting and Enjolras seeing it – and maybe everybody we know knows about your aesthetic crush on him,’ Joly poured him some water, ‘did you really get drunk on Jehan’s emergency wine?’

‘I did. Try realising you fucked up without dealing with it or trying to forget the whole ordeal,’ Grantaire stuffed another fork full of lasagne into his mouth, ‘this is good by the way, can you tell Musichetta I say thank you?’

‘I’ll pass it on.’

‘By the way, date of three, how was it?’

Joly exchanged a look with Bossuet and they broke out in sly grins, ’We probably shouldn’t tell you too much since we don’t know where this is going. I mean, we went out for dinner and a stroll along the river.’

‘She took us home,’ Bossuet blurted out, his cheeks turning pink.

‘I figured, since you weren’t around this morning or lunchtime,’ Grantaire scratched his neck, ‘am I going to see her around the flat soon, then?’

‘Well, we are going to meet up again, soon,’ Joly said, cutting up his food, ‘if that answers your questions?’

‘I have lots of questions about logistics and stuff, like, how –‘

‘Not those questions,’ Bossuet choked on a bite of food, ‘You know how stuff works, the rest is down to our discretion. Pull yourself together, you have more stuff going on than us, anyway, let’s concentrate on that.’

‘What if I don’t want that?’

‘Not my problem.’

Grantaire rolled his eyes and dug back in, ‘Well, no talking about it, then.’

Joly shook his head with a smile, ‘You should, though. Please don’t try to avoid Enjolras for ell eternity now. The duel proved to everybody that you actually care. Montparnasse saw you there and he made the connection that you are actually quite important to Enjolras. Don’t throw that away, you are friends after all and between his music and your art, you are pretty amazing. Admitted, Enjolras has his head in the clouds about a few things, and he might need someone to remind him of the boundaries of his undertakings every once in a while. So far, you have done a good job with that – with clever arguments, nonetheless.’

Grantaire felt the effect of Joly’s words warm his insides and take over a small part of his brain that was reluctant to follow his usual self-deprecating persona. He had to admit that his friends of the last years knew him well enough to push the right buttons to make him feel better about himself. It was a welcome change but did not happen too often.

‘Promise me you will not avoid Enjolras because you are embarrassed about having been inspired by him? The old masters didn’t apologise to the objects of their pictures.’

‘The old masters had people sit for portraits and didn’t rely on a brief glimpse on a person,’ Grantaire cleared his throat, ‘what would that promise entail?’

‘Not shutting yourself off, coming to the next meeting and participating a bit. You know, showing you’re in for the money.’

‘But I’m not, Enjolras’ whole idea is completely detached from reality.’

‘Better don’t tell him that,’ Joly grinned at him, ‘we wouldn’t want to spoil the honeymoon phase.’

Grantaire let his head hit the table top. Bossuet petted his head with a small chuckle and rubbed small circles in his neck.

‘Listen, Grantaire, you have a tendency to brood and get lost in your thoughts. Please just consider going to see Lafayette tomorrow and then talking to Enjolras. Once you have explained the motivation behind the painting, he might actually agree with it. If he doesn’t already because that drawing is freaking beautiful as it is.’

‘Thanks,’ Grantaire mumbled into the wooden surface of the table, ‘I’m sure that’s the argument that will get Enjolras to forget how much he doesn’t like people being idolised the way I made him seem in the painting. That might be one of the bigger points about it.’

‘Now, now,’ Joly chipped in, ‘you are painting this black, again. Do you need chocolate to build you back up?’

‘I’d prefer booze,’ Grantaire sat back up and pushed his hair out of face. A few curls bounced around his ears and he raked his fingers through them, fluffing them up even more than they already were.

‘No booze,’ Joly wagged a finger at him with a serious face that did not suit him at all, not when the laughter lines around his eyes betrayed his stern façade, ‘Booze will make you forget temporarily and you don’t want to forget right now. You were just about to agree to face the challenges head on.’

‘Just about, Joly, do you hear that? I was just about to promise – really, this doesn’t really help,’ Grantaire scraped the last leftovers of lasagne off the plate and licked his knife clean, shooting Joly a dark glance.

‘Right, who’s doing dishes tonight?’ Bossuet pushed his chair back, almost tipping it over, ‘Oops.’

‘Don’t worry, you sit down,’ Joly kissed him and took his plate from him, ‘We’ll do it, won’t we, R?’

Grantaire got up reluctantly and shuffled into the kitchen, muttering under his breath and wishing for a fairy that took over the housework from them. Of course, nothing of that sort happened and he ended up scrubbing cheese and tomato sauce from plates and out of a baking dish before passing them to Joly who had sat down again to dry whatever Grantaire passed him.

Bossuet had switched the TV on and started watching some kind of nature documentary, it provided backdrop enough for Grantaire and Joly to work in silence. Once the dishes were back in their places in the cupboard, they joined him in the living room, Joly sitting down on the sofa an between his legs, Grantaire rolling up in the armchair just as a lioness began hunting a zebra foal on the screen.

‘Poor baby,’ he sighed and tilted his head back over the armrest. He spotted Adonis standing in the doorway to his room, tail tip flicking and eyes fixed on him, ‘Come on, boy, do you want to see the big cats, too? Do you want to cuddle up with me?’

Adonis meowed, clawing at the carpet in the hallway. Grantaire watched as he yawned and began stalking towards him. The tomcat jumped into his lap and curled up there but not before sinking his claws into his trouser leg for a moment of sharp pain that shot through Grantaire’s nerve endings.

‘Thank you,’ he started scratching behind Adonis’ ears, fingers finding their rhythm quickly, relaxing both him and the cat.

‘I admire the love you have developed for the hell spawn,’ Bossuet slid one of his sleeves up to reveal a few red scratches, ‘he can’t stand me for some reason.’

Grantaire chuckled to himself and nuzzled Adonis’ fur, ‘He has good taste.’

‘I could comment on namesakes loving R but I will refrain from doing so since I will have to fear his claws…’ Joly trailed off, his lips stretched by a knowing grin that Grantaire chose to ignore.

His friends’ mocking comments and eyebrow wagging bore no relevance to him anymore, at least that was what he told himself every time he started listening to the playlist he had created off all pieces he had heard Enjolras play. He searched the internet to extent to find piano versions of all the songs, and so far, he had succeeded. Something was amiss, it stared him in the face when he listened to these non-Enjolras versions of Chopin’s etudes and Beethoven’s sonatas but he could not pinpoint what exactly made the difference.

They finished the documentary on African desert life, Adonis fell asleep on Grantaire’s leg and Joly against Bossuet’s shoulder. Grantaire got up first to move the cat to his room, laying him down on his bed. The tomcat stretched in his sleep and yawned. The sight was cute enough to stop him for a moment to watch.

‘Grantaire, please,’ Bossuet’s strained voice from the living room made him shake his head and return to the common area, ‘He started drooling.’

Joly smiled in his sleep as they carried him into his bedroom. He, too, stretched when he hit the mattress and smacked his lips a bit. Bossuet tried to take off his cardigan but gave up a minute later to again turn to Grantaire for help. Together they managed to free Joly’s arms without waking him up.

Grantaire bid Bossuet goodnight and left the room. Turning to close the door behind himself, he caught sight of the warm smile Bossuet looked at Joly with, the way he almost touched his hair and sat down next to him to get changed. Grantaire closed the door and swallowed against a lump in his throat that seemed close to choking him all of a sudden.

A single sock had found its way under his bed, he reached for it and threw it into the general direction of the hamper. He had lain down on the floor of his room immediately after getting back, Adonis having spread out so much that he could not get under the blankets without disturbing him. The hard floor under his shoulders made him stretch his torso for once, sinews and muscles that were used to his horribly crooked stature protested against their unusually healthy position with pain and strain but Grantaire simply extended his arms and legs until he was spread out like a starfish or a crucified figure, whichever was more dramatic. He could not decide.

After half an hour spent in this position, he unlocked his phone and set a reminder to go and see Lafayette during his office hour the following day. The harsh light of the display made him squint his eyes shut, more and more, until they were closed entirely. When the phone hit his face, he was already asleep.

***

He stirred. Immediately, pain shot through his body, lighting up his nerve endings and snapping him awake. For a moment, Grantaire panted against the pain, trying to calm his breath enough to clear his mind. Fear settled deep in his bones, he searched his memory for pointers, symptoms of an episode proclaiming its arrival but he remembered neither the nausea nor the dread of it taking hold of him, no headache had forced him to his knees. Careful, as to not risk anything, he lifted an arm to fumble for his phone on the bedside table. His hand found neither bedside table nor his phone, instead, it hit wooden floor boards and a power cord. Grantaire convinced his eyes to open and take a look at what had happened to him. He realised his circumstances immediately when he did. He had fallen asleep on the ground in front of his bed, splayed out without a blanket or anything else underneath to support his back.

‘Fuck me sideways with a crowbar,’ he groaned and cursed, pushing himself up against the protest staged by his muscles.

‘Do you want to wash out your mouth now or shall I do it in a minute?’ Joly leaned against the counter in the kitchen, a cup of coffee in one hand and his cane next to him, ‘there are sensitive people around, you know?’

‘The only sensitive thing about you is your knee,’ Grantaire reached past Joly’s head to get painkillers from the top shelf of the cupboard and tossed them at his friend, ‘in exchange for your coffee. You shouldn’t drink coffee with these anyway.’

‘What makes you think I need –‘

‘You have your cane with you already and it’s not even eight. Take the bloody painkiller and give me that cup,’ he took it from an extended hand and downed it, ‘I’m in the bathroom.’

‘Go! Go and be happy,’ Joly grabbed his cane and pointed it at Grantaire, ‘see you on the other side.’

‘’Til we meet again,’ Grantaire responded and both grinned as they shouted at each other, ‘I am not throwing away my shot.’

‘Too early for musical theatre references,’ Bossuet yawned and pushed past Grantaire, his eyes not even half open, ‘why do lectures start this early?’

Grantaire left Joly to answer this existential question and shuffled into the bathroom. He took his clothes off, inspecting the damage done to his belly by the denim waistband of his jeans. The angry red imprints were sensitive to the touch and he winced when his fingers hit an especially deep one. He turned the shower on and stood under the hot spray for a few minutes before moving as much as a finger. The water massaged his stiff shoulders and soothed his back a little, allowing the muscles to warm up enough to be moved without pain. Thankful for the improvement, small as it was, Grantaire washed his hair and combed through the heavy mess of his wet curls. The soapy water swirled around the drain before disappearing. Grantaire felt like it carried away something that had burdened him. He still felt like a weight held him down but it had lost some of his bite, allowing him to feel almost human. Turning off the water, he reached for his towel and wrapped it around his waist. Next, he got his razor out of the cabinet and squeezed some of Bossuet’s shaving cream into his palm to smear it onto his face. Bossuet didn’t mind, in return, he used Grantaire’s moisturiser which would not have been used otherwise since Grantaire could not have cared less about the condition of his skin.

Once he rinsed the razor for a last time and dried his face with a corner of the towel, he felt even better. He combed his hair back and out of his face, allowing for a single drop to run down his back only to be soaked up by the towel, brushed his teeth and collected his discarded clothes, bundling them up. When he left the bathroom, Bossuet made a remark about his clean shaven chin and Joly wolf whistled; Grantaire flipped him off with a grin and slammed his door shut behind himself.

Adonis had already left and he was not sure whether he had been in the kitchen with his friends where they kept his bowl. Grantaire shrugged, more to himself than anybody else and threw the worn clothes in the hamper, gathering up the sock he had chucked on the ground close to the basket the night before. He opened his wardrobe to pick his outfit for the day, an outfit that would have to get Lafayette to take _Catch Me I’m Falling_ off the wall in the entrance hall, an outfit that demanded an explanation. He caught sight of his half naked body in the mirror on the inside of the closet door.

He liked to imagine that he could see the change already that taking up boxing again brought to him, imagined his shoulders broadening and his arms and belly getting more defined. Bahorel teased him about the soft features he had accumulated and Grantaire knew he did not mean any harm. It still hurt on a level so hidden that he could not locate it. Maybe it was the knowledge that he had allowed himself to let go something he had actually liked about himself, maybe it was knowing that he had battled one extreme to end up on the opposite of the scale.

It made little sense to stare at the way he could see the faint outline of his ribs, Grantaire decided. He would continue to box, to gain muscle mass and eventually, fill out in a healthy way. Maybe, Bahorel had a few pointers for him in that regard.

He picked a fresh pair of jeans with only small paint splatters at the seams and a t-shirt that announced his love for a certain band he had not listened to in years but still cherished in the calm moments of his bedroom and studio space. There was a small tear just underneath the printed motif but he ignored it, knowing that his other shirts would have paint all over them, and tears, since the washing machine could not be trusted with cotton.

When he left the flat, his bag ready for the day and another coffee in a travel mug, he felt ready to take on the world, something he had not felt in some time. He met Feuilly on the stairs and nodded a greeting. A few students joined them on the next landing and Grantaire wished he imagined the whispered words that threatened to cast a shadow on his day. He struggled to decide which was the worst between ‘publicity stunt,’ ‘obsession’ and ‘undeserved favouritism.’ His stomach wanted to flip and regurgitate his sparse breakfast without further warning.

A hand on his arm almost made him jump, ‘Are you alright?’

Feuilly looked him over with a cautious look, his deep eyes seeming not quite convinced when Grantaire nodded sharply. A group of art students stood at the bottom of the stairs, eyes focussed on the canvas on the wall. One of them spotted them coming down and elbowed the one next to them. Grantaire wished for the ground to open up and swallow him – just him, not Feuilly who still held onto his arm.

‘Hey Grantaire,’ one of the students called out, ‘how does it feel so far up Lafayette’s arse?’

‘Have you got a nice view, crawler?’

‘Brownnoser!’

‘How can you show up here like it’s okay that your mediocre pictures get exhibited every time? Others deserve that exposure, too!’

The others joined in, calling out names, insults and abuse. Grantaire clenched his teeth and prepared himself as he reached the bottom of the stairs. He focussed on the doors, set to leave without being stopped by them, no matter how hard every word seemed to hit him. He would not give them the satisfaction of seeing the tears stinging in the corners of his eyes. A voice in the back of his mind piped up about him crying like a baby too easily, that he needed to do something about it. Faced with a group of students ready to tackle him, however, nothing came to mind that could have had an immediate effect.

‘Hey, idiots,’ Feuilly let go of his arm and pushed past him, ‘are you quite finished?’

In response, an empty juice packet sailed over his head and missed Grantaire by a few inches. Someone in the group shrugged and turned to face Feuilly.

‘What are you on about? It’s true – he takes exhibition space from other people who have stuff they would like to see exhibited as well. When was the last time you had one of your fans on display? Grantaire is just greedy and Lafayette seems to have lost it completely.’

Feuilly’s face went so red that Grantaire feared he might pop a blood vessel, ‘You absolute clown! When did I last display my stuff? Well, the most recent was put up Saturday morning in the administration offices, where everybody who is even vaguely interested in the academy will see them as an example of the brilliant work we do here, the diversity of methods and influences, the opportunities we are granted to explore our inspirations and new material. My fans have not only secured me a scholarship but also a job after I graduate, has your art done that for you? Any of you who seem to think you are high and mighty enough to go about running your mouths? The academy represents itself and what it stands for through the artwork picked by the whole teaching body when an internal exhibitions is decided! They look for passion, unique ideas and a special something, all things found in my fans and Grantaire’s work. Now, I could go even deeper but instead I want to leave you with a question: why is it that some names repeat themselves as the ones displayed in the academy rooms whilst I would not be able to tell all of you apart by your work? Think about why your pieces have not been chosen, if you even handed something in, instead of badmouthing the ones of us that have spent ages sweating blood over what you choose to call mediocre?’

He turned back around to Grantaire, grabbed his hand and pulled him out the door before anyone could make another sound. They were halfway down the street before Grantaire managed to form words.

‘Feuilly, you didn’t have to –‘

‘Don’t you dare,’ he was interrupted with a sharp pat on his back, ‘I am in full swing, don’t say anything that goes back on what I just did. You may thank me even though you shouldn’t have to, not for someone giving these idiots a piece of their minds. I lied, I know what they handed in for exhibition, and all of them are as uncreative as envious. One of them handed in a copy of a Nolde sketch, imagine that! They are never going to be exhibited with an attitude like that.’

‘Thank you,’ Grantaire dared to smile at his companion, ‘thank you for stepping in.’

‘No problem,’ Feuilly readjusted his backpack, ‘any Amis would have done the same and I know for a fact that you would do the same for me without hesitation. It’s not just common decency. It’s friendship. See you later, I have to go see Marat before his class.’

He took off running and left Grantaire to make his way to the campus. He had not quite processed what had happened when his phone buzzed with new messages in the group chat. Enjolras reminded everybody to come up with projects they could tackle before Christmas since they had some of their budget left and administration would take it away if they had too much left at the end of the year. Grantaire sighed, put his phone back into his pocket and made his way to the first class of the day.

He managed to concentrate on the content being taught, historic paintings taken out of context for propaganda reasons. A few times, paper balls were thrown in his direction but he realised quickly that most of his fellow students were terrible at aiming. Ignoring it got easy after some time and when one of the paper balls landed on their lecturer’s desk, he managed to snicker along with everybody else as the culprit was called to the front and made to pick up all the papers that had found their way onto the ground there.

Once he got to leave the seminar room for lunch, Grantaire picked his bag up from where he had left it and hightailed out of the door. If he wanted to get to Lafayette’s office in time for the actual office hour and before others, he needed to sprint along the river, disregarding traffic and pedestrians. Someone yelled after him but he was already off, focussed only on the distance he had to cover. The cold air stung in his lungs and burned on his face, his bag hit his hip a few times and he got almost run over just a street away from the offices but he managed to be in the second spot in the queue, after a female student who nervously clutched a wrapped canvas. Grantaire gave her a small smile as he fell into his chair and gasped for air. He felt like a fish out of water in the physical sense but the satisfaction he felt when another students showed up mere seconds later made up for it.

Lafayette’s door stood ajar so they all could hear him call in the first. The nervous student entered the office and closed the door, locking out any noises or words being exchanged behind it. Grantaire pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked the group chat again. Some of _Les Amis_ had suggested going out for lunch, he shot a quick response explaining where he was and wishing them a good time. He would have to make do with whatever he could buy to go. There were enough cafés and shops to grab a sandwich and drink before going back to use his studio time.

‘Next,’ Lafayette’s voice caught him off guard, he flinched and stared at the person next to him, a stocky student with a faint green undertone to his skin, for a moment before getting up and entering the office.

Lafayette sat with his back to the door when Grantaire entered, typing away on the computer – he could spot a corner of the art department’s website on the screen. The previously wrapped painting leant against the wall on one side, facing away from the spectator which meant nude study in academy terms.

‘Ah, Grantaire, haven’t had the pleasure of your visits in quite some time now, how are you, my boy?’ Lafayette got up and closed the door himself, pointing at the visitor chair in front of his desk, ‘Take a seat and take a biscuit.’

‘Sir, your attempts to turn into a real-life Professor McGonagall are successful,’ Grantaire grinned and fished a Jammy Dodger out of the tin.

‘And you like the biscuits,’ Lafayette returned to his chair, ‘what brings you here today?’

Grantaire stared at him for a moment. That his tutor might not even know what had driven him to sprint all the way from the lecture hall to his office and sit panting in front of the door had not crossed his mind. He tried to collect his senses, formulate a thought and croak it out without peppering it with accusations and unjust remarks.

‘Sir, I saw that my recent project ended up in the lobby of the dorms where – I mean, I didn’t hand anything in!’

Lafayette watched him, beady eyed as ever and with a smirk hidden in the corner of his mouth. Grantaire felt his gaze bore into his eyes, his hands started to feel clammy and sweaty.

‘It was a last minute change,’ his tutor took a biscuit and bit into it with passion, ‘I got to witness a musical duel the other night. Splendid entertainment, captivating performance and excellent judges. I have to say, if all extracurricular organisations spent as much time as _Les Amis_ to round of their events, we would have a hard time getting any teaching done.’

Grantaire was sure he should say something about the group, the dedication every member brought towards the cause as well as their studies but Lafayette did not allow him to sort his thoughts, his distracted mind could only focus on one thing, ‘You were there?’

‘Of course I was, Professor Lamarque needed a lift to the auditorium. The old man doesn’t drive and I needed something to do on a Friday night. I dare say it was worth leaving the house,’ Lafayette gave Grantaire a wink, ‘and it made me realise just how many questions he raises.’

‘He – what? Lamarque?’

‘Of course not, boy! Your muse, you found him!’

Grantaire heard his blood rush in his ears, it made him feel light-headed and faint, ‘My…muse…’

‘No need to repeat everything I say. I was surprised to find out that your muse is one of Lamarque’s tutees, on the other hand, he spends most of his time drilling them to understand the emotional potential of music and melodies – just as I aim to pass on with colours and forms,’ a chuckle accompanied the words and Grantaire felt a pat on his shoulder, ‘I understand now what drew you to paint him. I cannot say that I ever came across him before but there is an air around him that makes you want to take out a pencil and sketch him, especially when performing. I suppose you get most of your motion sketches done easily now?’

‘No,’ Grantaire managed to form an explanatory thought at last, ‘it evades me, I can never draw him playing.’

‘Good, that means I have something to look forward to. Back to the questions, though. He raises them, without doubt and the answers are different every time you spot another one. My dear boy, if you painted a picture for every question, you could fill a museum with them.

Grantaire rolled his eyes reflexively, ‘Thank you, sir, very helpful.’

‘Don’t you go sarcastic on me, Grantaire, it’s no use. Let us just say I got inspired watching him, too. A spot opened up just before we set out for the concert and the board asked me whether I could think of an artwork to fill it. I know you did not hand that paining in for it to be displayed but everything else would have been a crime against it. Surely, you don’t mind it being in a prominent spot, giving you this kind of exposure?’

‘Professor,’ Grantaire cleared his throat, ‘I do, actually. It’s not so much the comments about me being a favourite and being preferred, those will die down and I know you are above such petty things – but I did not have Enjolras’ consent to paint him and we were both taken by surprise when the painting showed up in the hall. I’m not sure he saw it as a compliment when he saw his face on a wall.’

Lafayette furrowed his brow and scratched his chin for a moment, evaluating what he had said. Something ghosted over his expression, haunted and filled with dread. Then, he returned the observant look Grantaire had cast him.

‘I’ll see what I can do, lad, don’t worry. Now, a question for you, a brash change of topic to make up for the distress: would you be interested in a collaboration? Don’t worry, I don’t require an answer on the spot, it’s a project the academy has tried to start before. We are going to put a list up before Christmas but if you are interested –‘

‘I came here to avoid being known as the teacher’s pet,’ Grantaire frowned.

‘And I still offer you a space because someone of your talent and capability is exactly what we are looking for.’

‘We?’

‘Big surprise, my boy,’ Lafayette smiled, ‘have another biscuit for the way?’

Grantaire picked a chocolate biscuit and grabbed his bag. He nodded the next student in line to enter after he left the office and popped the biscuit into his mouth. Before he started back, he dropped by the store and grabbed a few supplies he had been running low on. With a slightly fuller bag and an equally empty stomach, he decided to stop at the coffee shop on the corner to find out whether Éponine worked.

She did and judging by the way she looked at him when he entered, she had something to tell him. Her co-worker manning the coffee machine looked between them and whispered something in her ear. Éponine waved him closer and pointed to a table in the corner.

‘Sit there, you get your panini and coffee in a moment. I have stuff to discuss with you and I already regret to have to dump that on you,’ she pressed a few buttons on the till, ‘the usual.’

‘Thanks Ép, what would I do without your discount?’

‘Pay way too much for weak coffee,’ Éponine took his money and put it in the till, ‘sit down and brace yourself. It’s a big one but I think you owe me for showing up so little over the last weeks.’

‘Wouldn’t you agree that it is positive that I went a few weeks without another episode?’ Grantaire grinned and took his bag off his shoulder, ‘because it seems like that to me, Ép.’

Éponine rolled her eyes at him. Grantaire sat down in the corner and settled, watching her work behind the counter. Her hair seemed slightly messier and more tangled than it usually was and the circles under her eyes were darker and deeper than they had ever been. She seemed to run on sheer willpower alone, nothing else explained the way she held herself.

A few minutes later, Éponine set down a big cup of coffee and a steaming plate with a couple of paninis in front of him on the table. She sat down next to him and loosened the apron around her waist.

‘This is the biggest favour I will ever ask of you and I understand completely, if you don’t want to or don’t feel up to it – but at this point I don’t have an alternative,’ she sighed and ran a hand through her hair, ripping through a few tangles and knots, ‘I need you to allow Gavroche to crash on your couch.’

Grantaire almost spit out the first sip of coffee he had taken, blinking at her in disbelief. He set the cup back down and pinched the bridge of his nose. Éponine seemed to wait until he had caught his breath and got the coffee down until she said another word.

‘I know this is harsh, unplanned and surprising but please let me explain, it’s not going to take long,’ she toyed with a strand of her hair, ‘My parents left again. This time, they forgot Gavroche at home, he called me a few days ago to warn me before he came into the shop. I accommodated him in my flat but you know as well as me that my flat is a mess and not even remotely close to anything a kid his age needs.’

‘Sorry, pardon my interruption – but your parents forgot Gavroche?’ Grantaire shook his head, hyperaware that his mouth hung open, ‘How do you forget your own son?’

‘They have done that before but always with me, not him. I thought they had changed but then again, there is a reason I don’t talk to them anymore,’ Éponine sighed, ‘he’s got another few weeks of school until Christmas ahead of him so he would be there for most of the day, it’s just the evenings and late afternoons. I phoned my parents but they were pretty insistent that I could either pay for his ticket – which I can’t afford and wouldn’t do to the little nuisance – or look after him – which I would love to do but find myself limited by my living circumstances.’

‘And what makes you think I am your alternative?’ Grantaire rubbed his eyes, ‘I am the last person anyone should trust their kids with!’

‘I’ll have you know that my parents qualify for that title before everyone else,’ Éponine looked back at him with something in her eyes Grantaire had never seen before and wanted to see never again, ‘Believe me, Gavroche is better off no matter where he is, as long as it is far away from my parents.’

‘And you thought having him stay with Joly and Bossuet wouldn’t scar him for life?’

‘Try it? Please, for me – it would help me a lot until I have sorted out Christmas for us and know what to do with him then,’ she looked back to the counter, a few customers had come in and her co-worker seemed to wait for her to come back, ‘I’m sorry, I know this is the worst time and you have other problems to deal with but I need to tell Gav what will happen and another night with him in my bed will drive me crazy if I don’t have a backup plan.’

Grantaire had seen Éponine’s place before, a one room bedsit with a double bed which took up half of the space as it was. He agreed that it was less than perfect for a twelve year old since he would not even have enough space to open his books to do his homework.

‘This is a big request, Éponine,’ he eventually said, ‘go back to work, I’ll talk to Joly and Bossuet, they get to have a say in this but if they don’t agree, I’ll offer Gavroche my studio.’

‘Thank you,’ Éponine got up and hugged him briefly, ‘I’ll keep my phone close by.’


	27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

He caught Joly just before he could disappear behind the already closing front door and held it open for him to pass through. His friend looked exhausted and the hand gripping the head of his cane was already white at the knuckles.

‘Hello Grantaire, how was your day?’

The lack of a quip or snarky comment made all too clear that Joly himself had had a tiring, testing day that accumulated in the stairs he needed to mount to get to their flat. Grantaire offered his services to help him and together they scaled the first set of steps.

‘Weird you should ask,’ Grantaire cleared his throat, ‘I have something to discuss with you and Boss once we’re home. Is he back already?’

‘Should be, his classes were short ones today,’ Joly watched him for a few seconds.

Grantaire directed his gaze ahead stubbornly, what he had to ask off his friends and flatmates was a big enough sacrifice. Still, he hoped to help Gavroche in the long run.

‘You’re home early,’ Bossuet looked up from his tablet, ‘’specially you, Grantaire. What happened to using Monday afternoons for studio time?’

‘Don’t worry,’ Grantaire ran his hands through his hair with a deep sigh, ‘I just talked to Éponine and I have a question for you both. Turns out, the Thenardiers left again and left Gavinou behind. She can’t shelter him for much longer, her flat is simply too small. She asked me whether I – we – can take him in for some time until she figures out something that will be better than that. It’s a huge task but we are probably the only place with a pull out couch, living room space and people there to take care of him who she knows and trusts.’

Joly and Bossuet exchanged a look, ‘You want to help the kid, it’s only reasonable. Grantaire, all you are is a good person. And we support good people, so go ahead, call Éponine and tell her that the little nuisance can stay with us! Of course he can, so don’t make it sound like you needed to convince us much.’

Grantaire felt happy enough to hug and squeeze both of them but settled for a high five before he pulled his phone out of his pocket to dial Éponine’s number, ‘Ép, I have the best flatmates in the world! When can I come pick Gavroche up?’

‘Thank you, Grantaire, you are an angel. Gavroche will be over the moon to hear you’re helping out. I’ll ask him to come to the coffee shop tonight and bring the stuff he has at my place. It’s not much, only one bag but he has everything he needs; you could pick him up after we close,’ Éponine’s relief was clearly audible.

‘I’ll be there to pick him up. See you then,’ Grantaire ended the call and turned back around to his friends, ‘Right, we still have a few hours. Can I count on you to help me?’

‘Sure thing, what do you need?’ Joly sat up on the couch, dragging Bossuet up with him.

‘If you could prepare another set of bedding? And Bossuet, can you help me tidy up a bit?’

‘Grantaire,’ Bossuet cleared his throat, ‘If you take responsibility for the urchin, you should clear your space.’

‘Clear my space?’

‘Your room,’ Joly nodded, ‘your studio. Get rid of everything that may be harmful or interesting to him. You know that little bugger better than us but I bet he would love to taste whatever substances you have around down there. And I know you keep them downstairs!’

Grantaire opened his mouth, ready to protest, only to shrug a moment later, ‘You’re right. I’d better go, then.’

He turned around, threw them a salute and went back out, running downstairs as if he was being chased by hellhounds. There was a brief moment of panic when he slipped on one of the last steps and only just caught himself before he could seriously trip.

He unlocked his studio door and opened it – only to stop in his tracks. Seeing it with the intention of getting rid of everything that could potentially harm a young, curious boy like Gavroche made a difference after all. The mess between the used canvases, paint supplies and his belongings that found their way into the room seemed even worse than any time before. Grantaire sighed and rolled his sleeves up.

‘Let’s do this, start with the obvious,’ he sighed and pushed through a few paint splattered clothes on the ground, ‘right, what’s the obvious?’

He picked a half empty bottle up from the floor and inspected it for a moment before setting it aside on the windowsill. Within minutes, he had found more bottles in various states of emptiness in the clutter on the ground and put them to the one he had found first. The bin bags he kept in his studio to keep the floor paint free came in handy once he faced the sheer number of bottles that needed tidying up. Grantaire gathered together everything he could find.

Thirteen cigarette packs and nineteen bottles of different booze later, he had to lie down for a moment to take in the sight. He let his arms and legs flop over the edge of the divan, the picture perfect copy of a struggling Romantic in his art history books. The heap of useless stuff he had collected and put to the other side of the room was almost the same height as the bottles. He had ripped off a few bin bags to motivate himself to put everything away but the dread that filled him thinking of it all but glued him to the divan.

His phone beeped with a message from Joly, he opened it and read, ‘You must’ve hit a low point by now. Get up and off your arse, do it now, we’re off to the shops. Does Gavroche like fish fingers?’

Grantaire pushed himself up to reply to the message. Joly and Bossuet went out of their way to help him and Éponine only an hour after they had decided to shelter the boy, and he had not even managed to get rid of his stash. He rubbed his face, supressing a yawn before padding towards the pile of rubbish.

The door opened as he shook open the first bin bag, he heard the sound but could not be bothered to turn around whilst headfirst in the rubbish. He only turned around after the first armful of loose papers and shreds was in the bag.

Enjolras stood just inside the room, his expression somewhere between panic and disbelief. His hair had found its way around the tie still holding most of it back but a few strands were swinging over his ears. Grantaire drew himself up to say something, whatever it was his brain would decide to utter at that moment, maybe an apology for the inconvenience the painting had caused, maybe an explanation why he had drawn him. Instead, his brain informed him that Enjolras’ apprehensive look was directed at something closer than him than Grantaire bent over a pile of rubbish. His attention seemed to be occupied by the bottles and cigarette packs on the floor.

‘Grantaire – are you alright? What is this?’ his voice reverberated with the consternation of the righteous as he stepped further into the room, still not looking at him, ‘What is the matter?’

Grantaire could see the assumptions behind the careful worry on his face, the thoughts racing through his mind, and eventually, the determination to set things right. He scoffed. Enjolras’ display of invasive hypocrisy seemed to overwhelm him with the sticky, sweet smile his friend had put on again. He refused to become his charity case, not when he was in the process of getting his shit together and his studio sorted without help from Enjolras and his starry-eyed idealism.

‘Get out,’ he growled, ‘none of your business what’s going on here.’

Seeing Enjolras flinch gave him pleasure for a second. In an attempt to top his own efforts to get his studio back to himself, he grabbed the bottle closest to him and thumbed the cork off. Chugging the remains of the liquid inside – pastis, as his taste buds informed him, something he did not necessarily like – he could see Enjolras’ eyes widen with chagrin.

‘I thought you had come so far and then you go drown your nihilistic worries in booze again,’ Enjolras turned on the spot and rushed back to the door, ‘and I only wanted to talk! I’m sorry for intruding on your…whatever it is.’

‘A nihilist doesn’t worry,’ Grantaire shouted after him just before the door slammed shut.

He emptied the bottle and threw it in the bin bag he still held. Despite his demonstration, he felt empty after a few minutes. His mind, unoccupied due to the bovine nature of his task, raced against him, making up scenarios that could have brought Enjolras to the decision to come talk to him. Instead, he had assumed as much as he had when he came in, seen him look at the bottles and decided that he was in for a scolding, if he did not get the better of Enjolras first. Chugging the last gulps of pastis left in that bottle had left him with a sour taste in his mouth that seemed to spread. He had driven Enjolras away and nothing about his behaviour had come close to what he had wanted him to know. There had been no time for an apology or explanation, he had successfully ruined his chances to get Enjolras to see his vision and judging by his reaction, Enjolras was back to believing Grantaire was an alcoholic.

He threw the next bottle into the bag, yearning to see it smash into pieces but mindful enough to remember that glass shards and bin liners did not mix. One of his bottles, half-filled with the beautiful amber that was whisky, seemed to smile sympathetically. He shook his head, more alcohol would hardly help him sort out whatever needed sorting. More than that, Gavroche and Éponine counted on him. The easy way out, drowning his worries in booze, just like Enjolras had said, was not an option as long as other things needed his attention.

With that in mind, he pushed the thought of disappointing Enjolras again to the back of his consciousness and continued his clean-up. The bottles and cigarette packs disappeared in his bin bags without further temptation and when he carried them out the backdoor to dump them in the dustbin, he felt accomplished enough to smile to himself for a moment.

He went back inside, head light and shoulders sagging a little but when he opened his studio door again to go through it with a broom, he felt relieved. The tidy spaces between his easel, divan and the tiny cabinet were open and unoccupied, a positive result in itself. With his studio finished and his watch telling him that he had just enough time to go through his room as well, he walked up the stairs.

Halfway up, he stopped at the door to the music corridor, trying to hear whether someone played the piano but the sounds coming back to him were so many and so diverse that he could not tell two of them apart. Grantaire cursed his curiosity and opened the door. He snuck down the hallway, peeking into a few windows. Both Cosette and Courfeyrac were practising in their rooms, Combeferre was looking through some sheet music and Marius waved at him from his place in the middle of the room. Grantaire returned the wave awkwardly before ducking past Enjolras’ door. He could hear the piano from outside, no need to look into the room.

Enjolras was playing a piece that sounded like Schumann but Grantaire could not tell whether it was one of the _Fantasiestücke_ or _Kinderszenen_. It captured him for a moment, the lamenting melody echoing through his brain as he tried to remember when and where he had heard the piece before since it did not immediately conjure up memories of his own playing and practise back at home as a child. It asked a question, barely tangible in his memory.

He fought off the desperate wish to peek into the room, the desire to watch as Enjolras strung together melodies and notes into a tapestry of sound that wrapped him up completely. It provided something to hold onto. Looking into Enjolras’ room, however, meant tempting fate. He had only just crossed Enjolras, doing it again would most likely end in tears and he could not tell, whose. It took all his willpower to turn back and leave the music corridor again.

The flat was empty, just as expected since Joly and Bossuet were not yet back from their shopping spree. They had left the living room tidier than it had been in weeks and even folded up the blankets that usually ended up in knots on the sofa. He passed through and opened his own door. Adonis looked up from his place on the window sill where he was sunbathing in the pale winter sun. His tail flicked lazily against the wall.

‘Hello there, lazy bum,’ Grantaire ruffled his fur and looked around, ‘where should I start, huh? Bed? Desk? Shelves – or maybe even the floor?’

He picked a t-shirt up from the floor and sniffed it, ‘No, that needs to go in the hamper.’

Adonis seemed to agree, meowing softly before hopping off the window sill. He left the room without another glance, leaving Grantaire to deal with the mess both of them had left in the room. It took him a moment to locate the messiest corners but once he had tackled those, his room looked inhabitable again. Adonis returned the minute he had finished, curling up on the bed and watching with half-closed eyes.

‘How nice of you to join me again,’ Grantaire groaned and lifted a box with painting supplies onto his wardrobe where it could gather dust until he wanted to try aquarelles again, ‘are you ready to have a child roam around the flat?’

Adonis purred, rubbing his belly against Grantaire’s pillow. He could see the tiny red hairs getting stuck there and sighed. Maybe he could get Jehan to brush Adonis’ fur every so often, he seemed to like his friend, despite the overly childish voice they used whenever they spoke to an animal. Grantaire did not see the point in changing his voice when talking to his cat. It seemed an unnecessary hassle that he tended to avoid, if possible.

The front door opened, he could hear it slam against the wall of the hallway, indicator that whoever opened it, did not have a free hand to catch it before impact. Bossuet laughed, probably at something Joly had said and then he heard his friends in the kitchen.

Grantaire let his look linger on his tidied room for a second before nodding approval to no one in particular. He grabbed his comfy green jumper from his desk chair and pulled it over his hair, took his beanie out of his backpack and petted Adonis’ head before leaving his room.

Bossuet and Joly were storing groceries in the fridge when he passed them, only poking his head in to let them know that he was leaving to pick up Gavroche. Joly, one hand in the freezer and the other holding an ice pack out for Bossuet who had, by the looks of it, bumped his head on the cupboard door, looked up and flashed him a smile.

‘Off you go, saving the young soul. We should throw the rascal a welcome party!’

Bossuet nodded, a little too enthusiastically for Grantaire to believe that they had not come up with the idea on the way back home, ‘He knows everybody as it is, anyway! And we want him to feel welcome for as long as he stays.’

‘Also, we haven’t had a dinner with everybody in ages,’ Joly added, eyes pleading.

‘That’s because you don’t want to cook,’ Grantaire reminded him before giving up, ‘but sure, we can have a dinner. But you do the organising, if it’s at our place! This is going to be your thing, I don’t have the time to worry about that as well.’

‘Sure, sure, leave the party-planning to us,’ Bossuet pressed the ice pack to his head with a grin, ‘since you don’t go out anymore.’

‘I have my reasons,’ Grantaire pushed himself off the door frame, ‘see you in a bit.’

He pulled the door closed and re-adjusted his beanie, pushing a few curls under the hat. The early evening caravan of students seeking the solitude of their studios had passed already and Grantaire could hear the instruments on the music corridors, voices from the poets’ studies and all styles of music accompanying the flow of ideas of everybody else. Whilst he stepped outside into the cold, he could hear Bahorel’s trademark dubstep playlist that angered him enough to make him work more efficiently whenever they were in their respective studio spaces. He turned and made his way down the street towards the coffee shop. The air stung his skin and wind blew under his jumper, making him wonder whether they had to expect snow before Christmas.

He had not wanted to believe Éponine when she said Gavroche would have only one bag filled with this belongings. The boy sat in a corner, sipping a hot chocolate whilst Éponine handed out the last orders. At his feet sat a gym bag and what he believed to be the boy’s school bag. Seeing Grantaire coming through the door, Éponine waved briefly and switched the coffee machine off.

‘I’m closing for the day,’ she explained, ‘Gavroche has everything he needs and some of the dry groceries I had in my kitchen. I can’t thank you enough, Grantaire, this is more than what I would ask from anybody and I already feel like –‘

‘I’m going to stop you right there,’ Grantaire wrapped his arms around her and kissed her cheek, ‘Joly and Bossuet didn’t think for a second before saying yes to this. We love Gavroche and we know about your situation. Don’t think we wouldn’t do whatever we can to make this mess better for you. And as for your parents – let them rot in the sewers. The important thing is that you and Gavinou are alright and we are going to work together to make sure that happens.’

He stroked her hair and waited for a moment, allowing her to collect herself before stepping back. Éponine’s eyes were glinting but she nodded and waved for Gavroche to join them.

‘Behave yourself, okay? And do your homework, this is not a reason or an excuse to waste the opportunities you get at school. I’m going to try and come by, if Grantaire allows me to –‘

‘Hey, of course I do, anytime!’

‘– and try not to annoy him, okay? Have you got everything? I will see you soon,’ Éponine hugged her brother who seemed torn between embarrassment and gratefulness for her initiation. He clung to the bulging gym bag next to him for the duration of the hug.

Grantaire nodded, ‘Just send me his timetable, school, afternoon activities and stuff later tonight. He has a space in our living room and Joly’s making fish fingers, if I’m not mistaken. There was also talk of a welcome party soon so I expect to be able to inform you about that in the near future.’

Éponine waved after them before turning back around to the counter to finish her day. Grantaire led the way for him and the boy who seemed uncharacteristically quiet. The bag seemed to grow heavier the closer they got, Grantaire took it out of his hand and slung it over his shoulder without comment. Gavroche kicked a stone into the street and let his hand glide over some fence posts.

‘Hey kiddo, you okay?’

‘How do you think I am, my parents left without me to go – well, we don’t even know where they went. I came home and the flat was empty, my bag sat on a chair and a note told me to get out before new tenants arrived. Ép was nice enough to listen to me curse them,’ Gavroche kicked another stone, ‘what does it say about you when your parents decide that you are the expendable one?’

‘You are no expendable, Gavinou,’ Grantaire put his free arm around him.

‘Apparently I am, they took my brothers, my sister – but not me,’ Gavroche wiped his nose on his sleeve, ‘they made a decision and carried it out.’

‘You get to stay with people who genuinely care about you, though,’ Grantaire ruffled his hair, ‘and I don’t just mean me and Éponine.’

‘Do you mean your friends? The ones that were there for Joly’s birthday?’

‘Yes.’

‘They are new friends, right? You never introduced me to them before,’ Gavroche nodded carefully, ‘Are you going to let me hang out at their places?’

‘If you don’t annoy them and they allow you to be around.’

Gavroche grinned and continued next to him, up the stairs, through the door and the entrance hall. They climbed the stair up to the dorms, Gavroche weaving his hand into Grantaire’s when they reached the second landing. He did not react or say anything. The boy deserved this moment, as hard as it was for him to adjust to the new situation, he was stubborn enough to hate the weakness it showed for him to seek the comfort of a warm, reassuring grip around his hand. Grantaire tried to fumble for his keys whilst holding onto the bag with the same hand.

Gavroche took the keyring from his fingers and unlocked the door, ‘There you go, old man.’

Grantaire rolled his eyes and followed him into the flat, carrying the gym bag into the living room to set it down on the couch. When he returned to peek into the kitchen, Gavroche was trading high fives with Joly and Bossuet. They leaned against the counter, listening to the words spilling from his lips as he was talking a mile a minute.

‘So now you’re here, shall we eat?’ Joly grinned and nodded towards the four plates he had set aside for their dinner.

Gavroche looked into the oven and looked up at them with shining eyes, ‘You really made fish fingers? That’s amazing, thank you so much! Grantaire really has the coolest friends.’

‘And he is pretty cool, as well,’ Grantaire dipped his finger into the creamy mashed potatoes Joly cooked to perfection, ‘Just so you know.’

Gavroche rolled his eyes and took the plate Bossuet handed him. He slipped past Grantaire and sat down in the living room, legs crossed and cutlery in one hand. Joly, Bossuet and Grantaire joined him, the TV was switched on and then they dug in in, not speaking for the first few minutes.

Grantaire’s phone buzzed a few times in his pocket, probably with messages from Éponine. He continued eating his dinner, pushing back the thoughts that wanted to take over and show him just how bad of a decision he had made. Joly smiled at him with a twinkle in his eyes. It reminded him that he was not alone in the situation, that his friends would support both him and Gavroche with all their possibilities. It calmed him down a little as he collected their dishes and brought them back into the kitchen once they had finished.

‘Get ready for bed,’ he ruffled Gavroche’s hair, ‘this is a lot to take in and you have a whole school day ahead of you tomorrow. Use the bathroom first whilst I feed Adonis.’

‘Who the hell is Adonis? And it’s way too early to go to bed,’ Gavroche got up from the sofa, looking around.

‘I adopted a cat,’ Grantaire murmured and rattled the cat food box.

Apollo shot out of his room, meowing demanding as he stroked around his legs. Gavroche stared at the cat, his jaw hitting the floor.

‘You have a cat! A real cat! And you named him Adonis?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s awesome! Can I pet him?’

‘You can cuddle and play with him all you want in the morning and if he lets you,’ Grantaire briefly rubbed Adonis’ head and smiled, ‘but first you get ready for bed!’

After that, Gavroche shuffled into the bedroom without another word about unfairness and pleading for a longer evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say Hi on Tumblr


	28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

Waking up to a child in the flat was little different to their usual routine. Grantaire woke Gavroche up before making the first cup of coffee and the boy padded into the bathroom, still half asleep, an arm curled around a seemingly very old cuddly toy. Grantaire put the sofa bed into day mode and folded up the blanket he had put out for Gavroche, drank his coffee and got dressed, all before the bathroom was vacated and he had to get the cereal from the top of the cupboard.

‘We should probably store that a little closer to the squirt, what do you say, squirt?’

‘Call me that again and they will never find your body,’ Gavroche took the cereal and a bowl, ‘are you really awake before seven? Don’t tell me that’s normal!’

‘Class at eight,’ Grantaire shrugged and poured some of Joly’s orange juice into a glass and set it down in front of Gavroche, ‘when do you need to leave?’

‘Soon,’ Gavroche told him through a mouthful of cereal, ‘I can take the bus, my student card covers all of the city centre. And I have football after school, can I just come back here when that’s done?’

‘Of course,’ Grantaire opened one of the drawers in the kitchen and rummaged through its contents, ‘take the spare key and try not to lose it, this is the fourth spare key I had to get made, Bossuet loses them quicker than we can store copies.’

Gavroche put the key in his pocket and returned his attention to the cereal bowl in front of him. Grantaire finished his second cup of coffee and put the mug in the sink.

‘Ready?’

‘Almost,’ Gavroche scooped the last of his cereal out of his bowl, ‘I need to go brush my teeth. And get my bag and books.’

‘Off you go then,’ Grantaire shooed him off his seat, ‘and don’t forget your phone when you leave, wouldn’t want you stranded somewhere.’

‘Not gonna happen,’ Gavroche stuck his tongue out at him and ran out of the room.

He came back with his backpack a few minutes later, filled a water bottle in the kitchen and stuffed it into the side pocket. Grantaire threw him a pack of oat biscuits Joly kept behind the more sugary snacks he and Bossuet would rather go for. Grantaire caught it with a grimace and dumped it into his backpack.

‘See you later,’ a coat rustled, the door clicked shut and Grantaire was left in the kitchen, wondering whether he should have made sandwiches for him.

He remembered his own classes and obligations soon enough and left as well, closing the door carefully since he had not yet heard Bossuet or Joly stir. They had been more fortunate with their classes and started their Tuesdays hours after him.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre left their flat as he walked past. Grantaire pulled his scarf up into his face and tried to move past them without their attention focussing on him.

‘Hey Grantaire, how are you?’ Courfeyrac’s blinding smile slowed him down for a moment, an arm was placed around his shoulders and then he felt himself being pulled into a hug, ‘I was a little worried you had turned full romantic poet and killed yourself!’

‘Courf!’ Combeferre shook his head, ‘Sorry, Grantaire, of course we never assumed anything like that. You disappeared for a couple of days and Jehan only knew that your painting was not supposed to be exhibited. A little worrying was understandably to expect.’

Grantaire winced and tried to escape Courfeyrac’s hug, ‘I’m okay, the whole thing was a little discombobulating but by now I have spoken to Lafayette. I just needed to sort the whole thing before I could face anyone really affected by this mess.’

‘A mess?’ Courfeyrac’s mouth hung open as he stumbled along next to him, ‘what are you talking about, you singlehandedly painted the most beautiful painting anyone at this academy has ever produced! Even the professors talk about it, across the departments.’

‘Cosette heard them yesterday, over lunch. You are the talk of the town,’ Combeferre nodded, ‘and in case you meant Enjolras –‘

‘Please,’ Grantaire brushed Courfeyrac’s hand off, ‘don’t start. I’ll try and catch him eventually and apologise but I don’t need you meddling now, sorry.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Courfeyrac found his smile again, ‘you will have to do worse things to actually insult us.’

‘People keep forgetting that we live with Enjolras,’ Combeferre grinned.

They parted ways in front of the building, heading towards different departments and parts of the town. Courfeyrac waved after him, Grantaire waved back and started out towards the first course of the day.

In between theoretical lingo and case studies it was easy to forget everything outside the walls of the academy. When Grantaire packed his things together to make his way to the museum, he found a few messages from Éponine who asked about Gavroche’s first night with them. He replied, informing her that he had seen the boy off to the bus and had a relieved thank you message within minutes. Grantaire put his phone away eventually and picked up speed to get to his shift on time.

The museum seemed to burst with visitors. Grantaire felt his eyes strain after a couple of hours, he felt his knees protest against both standing and sitting and his shoulders sagged against his will. Madame Lacombe checked in on him a few times, pretending to have official insurance business in his wing but the worried look on her face betrayed any neutrality she usually feigned towards them. Grantaire made sure to seem lively and smiled a little when she entered the room the next time, answering and elderly man’s question in detail.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, he ignored it in favour of another customer enquiry and waited until he was back in the break room to check his notifications. Once again, the group chat had accumulated an impressive number of messages. Combeferre had been the one to kick it off, asking who would be up for a dinner at their flat, ‘no discussion of anything _Les Amis_ , just dinner.’

Enjolras objected to it with five long, extensive messages, each arguing that _Les Amis_ business should be discussed. He reminded them of the looming Christmas Charity Event, something Grantaire had never associated with them. The lack of contributed ideas seemed to annoy him more than what Grantaire concluded to have been arranged by Combeferre and Courfeyrac without asking Enjolras in the first place. Almost everybody else had already agreed that a dinner would be a nice idea – including Bossuet and Joly.

Grantaire stored his phone in his bag, grabbed his beanie and coat off the hook and waved a goodbye at the closing shift. He ducked out of the backdoor, into the cold late afternoon. A few solitary snowflakes sailed from the sky and melted on the pavement in front of his feet. He felt a moment of excitement flow through his veins but it receded immediately, leaving more space for the thoughts he harboured.

***

Gavroche sat on the couch with his homework when he entered the flat and pulled his beanie off. Water drops fell to the ground, giving away just how much snow had fallen and melted on his head.

‘Oh no, I know that look,’ Gavroche looked up and pulled a grimace, ‘You are questioning every decision you ever made. Éponine looks exactly like you when she thinks about contacting Dad.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Grantaire ruffled his hair, ‘no stupid decisions from me today. Do you want to join me in the studio? It’ll be quieter and I don’t mind to have someone working in there.’

‘What are you going to draw?’

Grantaire sighed, ‘No idea. What would you draw if the topic was _Baroque With A Twist_?’

‘Baroque was all the kings, Versailles and the really boring books, right?’

‘What do you mean, boring books?’

Gavroche rolled his eyes, ‘It’s all damsel in distress, court and romance. No one seems to be anything less than honourable and the hero always makes the right call. Look at _The Three Musketeers_ , it’s almost boring.’

‘Excuse me? The musketeers were awesome, the true heroes of baroque France, defending the king as a symbol of everything to be aspired –‘

‘Have you told Enjolras of those views?’ Gavroche grinned at him before beginning to pack his backpack, ‘I think you should draw musketeers.’

Grantaire showed him the door and Gavroche jumped down the stairs in front of him with a giggle that made him smile against all his efforts not to. In fact, Gavroche was quick enough to seem impatient by the time he reached the studio door.

‘Don’t you dare stress me out right now,’ Grantaire unlocked the door and held it open for Gavroche to slip past him, ‘divan is your territory, as long as I can work in peace and silence.’

‘Aye, aye captain,’ Gavroche dropped his bag and began to rearrange things around the divan to make some room for his books.

Grantaire found an empty sheet of paper, big enough for what his professor had set as coursework. He fixed it on the easel, got his pencils out of a drawer of the cabinet and pushed one behind his ear before drawing as much as the first line.

He tried to remember the last time he had read _The Three_ _Musketeers_ , remembered the battered, worn out book on the shelf, the front cover more detached than actually covering. There had been a Fleur-de-Lys on the front, with swords crossed behind it.

‘I can work with that,’ he mumbled, more to himself than Gavroche who seemed to be occupied with biology, anyway.

Grantaire let his pencil explore the size of the paper, filling it into the corners and along the edges with sketches and scribbles, and rubbing out everything that didn’t fit the aesthetic until they made up an ornate frame. He took a step back and let his gaze wander over what he had created so far.

‘It’s empty,’ Gavroche’s voice interrupted his stream of thought, ‘it’s not even really visible.’

‘It’s a sketch,’ Grantaire cleared his throat, ‘I’m going to fill the centre with something else. The only problem for me might just be that it has to scream baroque.’

‘You have baroque paintings in the museum, don’t you?’

‘Yes but this is more than a copy. I have to reimagine baroque styles and themes, otherwise it is hardly creative,’ Grantaire set the pencil down and pulled his hair back, out of his eyes, ‘and my mind is empty. There is just no way to come up with something new, it’s all been done before.’

Gavroche held a book out in front of him, ‘Would you rather do my French homework?’

‘Nope, I’m good,’ Grantaire shuddered, ‘by the way, what should we have for dinner?’

‘Pizza.’

‘Keep dreaming, pick something healthy!’

Gavroche rolled his eyes, ‘Since when do you care –‘

‘You are staying with us in what is supposed a normal surrounding. That includes a balanced diet and exercise,’ Grantaire took the pencil back up, ‘and I care. It might have been not very visible but I have actually started boxing again. You should come along, get all that energy out of you for once.’

Gavroche rolled his eyes, ‘Anything’ll be fine for dinner.’

He returned his attention to his books and Grantaire stared at his sketch. The frame was nice enough to leave it but his brain refused to give him an idea to put in the centre.

‘Baroque with a twist,’ he mumbled, ‘that’s the worst theme we’ve ever had. Everybody will think of the Dutch masters, naked women and fat angels. Landscape is not permitted and musketeers are somewhat predictable. I need more ‘bam.’ Something that shows that my mind comes up with good ideas, new ideas…innovative art.’

He pushed the pencil in his hair tie, walked around the easel and flopped down on the floor in front of the windows. A ray of pale winter sun fell on his face and warmed his skin a little but the sun sank quicker and quicker, hanging low over the roofs. It burned in his eyes but did little to get rid of the darkness in his brain where he wanted to have an idea fit enough for a canvas.

‘I’m going upstairs,’ Gavroche pushed himself up on his feet, gathering his books, folders and pens together and shoved them into his bag, ‘see you for dinner?’

‘Sure,’ Grantaire turned around to flash him a smile, ‘I’ll be up in a minute, too.’

The door clicked shut a minute later and he was left alone again. Grantaire pulled his phone out and typed _baroque twist_ on a whim. At first, the results he got were unsatisfactory, showing some kind of fashion style, flowery, flowy textiles that seemed summery and colourful. He closed the app and groaned out his frustration.

‘What am I supposed to do with clothes, why can’t there be some kind of baroque building feature named the twist, for fuck’s sake,’ he felt like kicking his backpack across the room, ‘but no, all there is is a dance no one even can do –‘

His fingers moved without further prompt, typing and entering _twist dance_ in the search bar. Immediately, the pictures filled the display.

‘Jackpot,’ he murmured, a cautious smile re-appearing on his lips, ‘there we go, mood board here we come!’

He packed up, picked up the piece of paper and locked up after himself and ran along the corridor, past a dazzled Bahorel who came out of his studio with a clay figurine. Grantaire could see the surprise in his eyes but did not stop. Instead, he leapt up the stairs, taking three steps at once. With all the thoughts rushing through his head, he could barely contain himself. It took him a moment to realise that his feet had stopped next to the music corridor.

‘Force of habit,’ he scolded himself, ‘you should know better.’

He still opened the door and snuck through the dark corners. The sound of a single piano echoed from Enjolras’ music room. Grantaire smiled to himself, regretting his every choice as he inched closer to the door.

The melody was instantly recognisable on its own, a soft ripple of notes, streaming from the keys. Grantaire felt it pierce his skin, surrounding his heart and warming it from the outside, just for a moment as he was tempted to sway on his feet. He had never heard it played on one single piano before and it took him by surprise just how well it fit, the lament of the tortured soul pouring into the open room.

Something about _Swan Lake_ was magical beyond the plot. The music, entrancing as it was, transfixed him in his spot, leaning against the wall next to the door. Someone had taken him to see the ballet, once upon a time whilst he had still been open to the magic of the combination of classical music and dance. The _Finale_ at the end of the first act still left an impression of exquisiteness that never seemed to fade.

Grantaire wanted to find out why Enjolras had chosen the piece in all its dramatic sadness and foreboding nature, the crescendo of the gliding melodies and accompaniment, when the tune changed ever so slightly. The key change and following hopeful motif reminded him that even Swan Lake had its bright moments. He turned around the corner a little more to peek into the room as the piece came to a fulminant climax.

Enjolras sat hunched over the keys, finishing off the last sequence, left hand producing a vibrato. His hair covered most of his face but Grantaire could see the grin on his lips. It was directed away from the piano. He said something, inaudible to the eavesdropper beyond the door, a short quip followed by silent laughter as the last note found its way out of the room. He seemed content enough despite the dark and serious piece he had played and Grantaire found himself wondering how often he had heard Enjolras play something that did not represent his mood in that very moment. The curiosity to know who he had played for made Grantaire almost step out of the shadow that covered and hid him.

Gavroche sat in the arm chair in the corner, legs throw over the arm rest, a book in his hand but no backpack in sight. It made Grantaire realise just how much time he had spent in his studio before he had had an idea. Gavroche and boredom did not mix, he supposed he had left the flat to explore the building a little more. Coming across Enjolras or any of _Les Amis_ , people Gavroche had met before, seemed inevitable at some point. Grantaire trusted the boy to come up with an explanation or excuse as to why he was present in the dorms, according to Éponine, he had gotten himself into worse situations – and out of them.

Enjolras in the music room directed a question at the boy who clapped his hands and shouted something the muted sound of his voice resembled a plea and Grantaire assumed he had been granted requests by Enjolras. The next piece seemed to require some assistance since Enjolras filed through a stack of sheet music, pulled out a couple of pages and set them down on the music stand.

The _Fugue No. 5 in D major_ , part of Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier, was a staggeringly underappreciated and underestimated piece in Grantaire’s eyes. Hearing Enjolras play it with the amount of feeling and sensitivity as he did, his fingers barely stroking the keys, changed his perception of the piece. He had always seen it as a test to get through, the melody picking up in speed, dynamics and difficulty as it went on. Of course, Enjolras mastered it again, dominating the treatise when he entered it. He made it seem simple and Grantaire longed for a chance to watch him play again, be closer as the long, thin fingers cast a spell.

He remembered their clash in his studio a moment later, the look of disgust or disappointment on Enjolras’ face haunting him as he closed his eyes to escape the memory. Who could tell which was which with Enjolras who kept both disappointment and disgust in a similar fashion. They seemed interlinked most of the time, anyway. Enjolras made a sport of being disgusted by what disappointed him. In that, at least, he was consistent.

Grantaire allowed himself to watch as Enjolras concluded the Fugue to Gavroche’s approval and applause. He bowed curtly on his stool, a smile on his lips that seemed to get brighter when the boy held out a hand for him. The offered high five was exchanged and Enjolras said something to him that made him laugh again. They were clearly getting on and Grantaire felt a small twitch seeing them so relaxed around each other. He tried to imagine himself being carefree in Enjolras’ presence but his mind could not live up to the task. The mere thought was second-guessing anything he ever did.

‘At least Gavroche has found someone to talk to,’ he sighed before he turned away, this time to finally return upstairs and prepare food for the boy.


	29. Chapter Twenty-Nine

The _Musain_ was packed, every seat was taken and full glasses stood on every table. Students and pupils had gathered in the taproom and everybody seemed to have their spot in the room.

Joly and Bossuet had reserved themselves a table in the middle of the room and munched on the dessert platter, both with strong ales in front of them. Jehan stole Bahorel’s chips and dipped them into a mix of mayonnaise, barbeque sauce and balsamic vinegar, making their partner and Feuilly, who shared their table, retch with disgust. They sat on Bahorel’s lap, one arm around his shoulders, and conversed about a rhyming monologue that caused them difficulties. Feuilly watched them, eyes wide and fingers trembling around his glass. His panic about the way Jehan ate their chips seemed to be more powerful than the conversation going on at their table.

Marius and Cosette occupied a table on one of the sides where they shared a piece of cake on a perlwhite plate, feeding each other with forks. For them, nothing else seemed to exist. Marius whispered something in her ear that made her laugh, she replied and made him blush and Grantaire rolled his eyes walking past them. Dean Valjean had a lot to put up with in his opinion, having Marius as a son-in-law could only mean he had the patience of a saint. A few moments later, just as Grantaire had spotted an empty table in the back of the room, Marius accidentally brushed his hot chocolate off the table, causing enough commotion to get everybody’s attention. Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras looked up from their spot in the front of the room where they had been bent over a table filled with various papers and leaflets. Upon seeing Marius’ red face, they laughed and turned back to their business. Grantaire set down his bag and got his sketchbook out. He had sketches to complete and wanted to keep up with the plans Les Amis made for their Christmas charity event, as announced by an email about the order of business. The choice promised to be a tough one as it was, the triumvirate had nominated three charities, one for each of their leaders. Between rainforest, ocean clean up and an LGBTQ shelter in the Middle East, however, Grantaire struggled to pick a favourite. He was able to relate to each of the causes, saw the importance of all three and was confident about matching their three leaders to a charity. However, he was not sure about one of them benefitting from their Christmas appeal.

Grantaire had spent the entire forty minutes it took him to walk to the Musain brooding, thinking about the way Gavroche had stared on his hands after telling him about the kids at school. He had begun to understand the boy more with every day he spent at their flat and read his behaviour without a thought. Gavroche had been deeply upset and Grantaire could not help but think about how to help him.

‘Ladies, gents and those of us who know better,’ Courfeyrac clapped to get everybody’s attention and jumped on a chair, ‘Welcome to this week’s meeting of _Les Amis de l’ABC_ – welcome to everybody who is here for the first time, most of us don’t bite but I would steer clear of Jehan, if I were you. Our agenda for today has only two items: feedback on last week’s event and the next upcoming, the Christmas charity.’

Combeferre took a stand in front of everybody, pushed his glasses up his nose and cleared his throat, ‘The musical duel we conducted last Friday was an enormous success, all things considered. Not only because Enjolras won and proved his worth against Montparnasse but also because we have gained momentum, judging by the number of new faces in this room tonight. The cooperation with Musichetta and the Corinthe has proven its potential and selling our artwork was one of the better ideas we have come up with so far. Our joined efforts have raised enough money to donate five hundred pounds to each of our charities.’

Applause interrupted Combeferre who readjusted his glasses and grinned self-complacent, ‘This of course is a major achievement and we are incredibly proud of it! The money actively aids softening the blow some people are dealt every day. We would also like to announce that Feuilly filmed the whole thing and the recording will be made available for a small contribution which means we are not even done collecting money!’

Again, Combeferre had to pause to wait until the applause interrupting him subsided. He patted Enjolras’ shoulder with a grin and showed Feuilly a thumbs-up.

‘Our next goal has to be as ambitious as that,’ Enjolras got up, ‘and that goal is the organisation of our Christmas charity event. Courfeyrac, Combeferre and I have nominated three charities who might be up this year. They follow the best causes and we should try and come up with ideas to collect as many donations as possible, all with a cheerful spirit.’

Grantaire rolled his eyes and continued the sketch he still worked on. Jehan turned around

Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras looked up from their spot in the front of the room where they had been bent over a table filled with various papers and leaflets. Upon seeing Marius’ red face, they laughed and turned back to their business. Grantaire set down his bag and got his sketchbook out. He had sketches to complete and wanted to keep up with the plans Les Amis made for their Christmas charity event, as announced by an email about the order of business. The choice promised to be a tough one as it was, the triumvirate had nominated three charities, one for each of their leaders. Between rainforest, ocean clean up and an LGBTQ shelter in the Middle East, however, Grantaire struggled to pick a favourite. He was able to relate to each of the causes, saw the importance of all three and was confident about matching their three leaders to a charity. However, he was not sure about one of them benefitting from their Christmas appeal.

Grantaire had spent the entire forty minutes it took him to walk to the Musain brooding, thinking about the way Gavroche had stared on his hands after telling him about the kids at school. He had begun to understand the boy more with every day he spent at their flat and read his behaviour without a thought. Gavroche had been deeply upset and Grantaire could not help but think about how to help him.

‘Ladies, gents and those of us who know better,’ Courfeyrac clapped to get everybody’s attention and jumped on a chair, ‘Welcome to this week’s meeting of _Les Amis de l’ABC_ – welcome to everybody who is here for the first time, most of us don’t bite but I would steer clear of Jehan, if I were you. Our agenda for today has only two items: feedback on last week’s event and the next upcoming, the Christmas charity.’

Combeferre took a stand in front of everybody, pushed his glasses up his nose and cleared his throat, ‘The musical duel we conducted last Friday was an enormous success, all things considered. Not only because Enjolras won and proved his worth against Montparnasse but also because we have gained momentum, judging by the number of new faces in this room tonight. The cooperation with Musichetta and the Corinthe has proven its potential and selling our artwork was one of the better ideas we have come up with so far. Our joined efforts have raised enough money to donate five hundred pounds to each of our charities.’

Applause interrupted Combeferre who readjusted his glasses and grinned self-complacent, ‘This of course is a major achievement and we are incredibly proud of it! The money actively aids softening the blow some people are dealt every day. We would also like to announce that Feuilly filmed the whole thing and the recording will be made available for a small contribution which means we are not even done collecting money!’

Again, Combeferre had to pause to wait until the applause interrupting him subsided. He patted Enjolras’ shoulder with a grin and showed Feuilly a thumbs-up.

‘Our next goal has to be as ambitious as that,’ Enjolras got up, ‘and that goal is the organisation of our Christmas charity event. Courfeyrac, Combeferre and I have nominated three charities who might be up this year. They follow the best causes and we should try and come up with ideas to collect as many donations as possible, all with a cheerful spirit.’

Grantaire rolled his eyes and continued the sketch he still worked on. Jehan turned around and blew him a kiss.

‘Your annoyance is obvious, sweetheart,’ they warned with a slight head-shake, ‘Enjolras can smell it.’

‘I’m not annoyed,’ Grantaire shrugged and looked back down onto his sketchbook, ‘I am creating my alternate pastime.’

‘I can see that,’ Jehan grinned, ‘Enjolras still won’t like it, if he sees that you are preoccupied. But that’s yours to take up with him, I suppose.’

‘I’m sure of it but I’ll not disappoint myself dealing with him,’ Grantaire put another pencil line to the sketchbook.

‘What are you even drawing, dancing musketeers?’

‘ _Baroque with a Twist_ ,’ Grantaire answered them, ‘I didn’t have a better idea.’

‘Because that’s brilliant,’ Jehan squealed louder and clapped their hands.

‘Shhh,’ Grantaire swatted at them.

‘You could partake, you know? No one would be mad at you for contributing,’ energic steps came towards him and stopped when Enjolras stood in front of him, ‘or have you got anything better to do than working for a charitable cause?’

‘That’s rich, coming from you, Mr Let’s-collect-money-without-actually-doing-something. Naming a charity and then standing in the shopping centre with a donation bucket truly is the pinnacle of charity work. What happened to hands on, actually doing something, being the change in the world?’

Enjolras frowned, his face darkening, ‘You don’t have to come to our meetings, or contribute to our cause, if you don’t want to, you know? If our goal inconveniences you so much, you can go home, draw your silly little pictures and leave us to it!’

‘What a way with words you have,’ Grantaire put his pencil back behind his ear and shut his sketchbook, ‘truly, Enjolras, it’s almost like back in the days. Remember? When Les Amis stood on campus every Wednesday, handing out flyers, shouting chants, creating new banners for different causes and being…a general pain in the ass with how open you were about the whole cause you were always chasing – and changing every week. What happened to packing bags for the homeless and disadvantaged people? There are so many of them right on our doorstep and you can’t find a charity closer than hundreds of kilometres away? Why didn’t you pick something like a startup that makes metal straws? Don’t misunderstand me, that’s important, too but why? The people are more than ready to take to the streets, the political climate is a mess – it has probably never before needed so little to get them to join. So why aren’t we putting ourselves out there as a group of social people? Show the people that we actually care about them? And, what a coincidence, isn’t that what Christmas is all about?’

He felt a hand on his arm, trying to hold him back. Grantaire looked back over his shoulder and saw Jehan staring up at him with wide eyes. He had not realised that he had gotten up, paced around the table and come to a halt in front of Enjolras who looked at him, mouth set in tight lines.

‘What do you mean, Grantaire? Consumerism? Capitalism?’

‘Love, man,’ Grantaire shook his head, ‘Love, family, get-togethers. People get to spend time with each other, despite their differences. And yet, every Christmas, children from troubled backgrounds and disadvantaged families wish for a Christmas together with people who care about them, without being reminded that they will not get what they wished for – and I am not talking about the new phone or chemistry set. They won’t have a roast dinner or crackers, they won’t get hugs and blissful moments. So fuck all of this! Fuck this whole idea – you became so political, you forgot to be human!’

Tears burned in his eyes. For a brief moment he imagined himself far away from the _Musain_ and its patrons, far away from _Les Amis_ and Enjolras with his undoubtfully stern, disappointed look and wrinkled forehead that told him to sit down and drink, rather than attempting to debate.

He knew that he had ousted himself. After his outbreak, no path led back to the peaceful consumption of alcohol in the back corner. The door had slammed shut behind him with the same force of his words hurled at Enjolras.

It was quiet enough to hear a pin drop and Grantaire felt his chest heave heavily. Everybody around them seemed to stare and wait for them to move or say something – and yet, Enjolras and Grantaire remained standing in the middle of the room, not making a sound.

Enjolras’ hand trembled in between them where he had probably tried to reach for him. The lines around the corners of his mouth were set once again. Then, he opened his mouth.

‘What do you suggest, then? Or was that all you wanted to get off your chest? Have you got anymore senseless ideas or can we return to the things that actual matter?’

‘Oh no, not by far,’ Grantaire shook his head, ‘we should make the charity event about those traits, organise a Christmas event that combines donations with fun activities for children in need.’

‘You don’t get to –‘

‘Enjolras, there are always more important issues and things to talk about, I have more important things to talk about, because humans are selfish and will do first whatever seems closest to them. You can try and fight for the bigger picture but in the end, even your friends might choose to go home and take care of their lives first before joining the revolution. This time you have the opportunity to open people’s eyes for something close to home, something that is so unavoidably in their faces that they cannot avoid it,’ he felt his fists shake and stuffed them into his pockets.

Enjolras still stood in front of him, staring – but this time, with tears in his eyes.

‘Trouble’s brewing,’ somebody behind them whispered, Grantaire thought he recognised Marius’s voice.

‘Get out,’ Enjolras pressed out, his voice freezing with the ice of disappointment and anger, ‘get out before I get carried away. You have ten seconds before I will slap you across the face without a second of doubt.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](url) and say hello!!


	30. Chapter Thirty

The town was quiet and cold. Darkness flooded the alleys and streets, wrapped houses in blankets of starlight and muted any sound made on the sandy path near the river. An owl hooted in a black, leafless tree. The stars’ reflection on the water surface made it seem like thousands of diamonds swam downstream.

Grantaire had found a bench and sat down on the back rest. He had left the _Musain_ in a hurry without looking back. The night air had been like the punch in the face he had just avoided. He had pulled his earphones on after he had crossed the first street, turned the volume up and listened to his music loud enough to make his eardrums vibrate.

Once he reached the river, he found a bench to sit on. With his notebook and the music to occupy himself, time flew past. His phone buzzed a few times and he assumed the _Les Amis_ meeting concluded when he checked his notifications and saw a few messages from Jehan. He pocketed his phone and continued to sketch. The pencil in his hand felt as if it was part of his fingers as he put line after line in his notebook, completing a picture.

His fingers and toes grew cold, then his arms and legs. When he could no longer feel what his hands were doing, he put the notebook back into his bag and remained seated on the bench. His ears tingled with the cold and he felt the uncomfortable frozen wood under his legs.

Grantaire fumbled for his phone and changed his music to an even louder playlist that roared in his ears, no matter how cold they were. He held on to his phone in the darkness of the night that was only interceded by the streetlamps along the riverbank. The light painted patterns around the currents on the water surface, reminiscent of the night he had spent there with Enjolras, painting the calm ripples on the silver waves. He stared ahead, trying to banish the thoughts about Enjolras, toying with his phone. His contacts opened up and he scrolled through them, thumb hovering over both _Claquesous_ and _Montparnasse_ for a moment as he wondered what he would call either of them for and why he still kept the latter’s number. The wish for the calming effects of a bottle of cheap booze gnawed at the corners of his mind and he wished for the relief it brought.

He slipped off the bench eventually, put his bag over his shoulder and set off back towards the academy. On his way, he tried to pry the thoughts out of his mind and get rid of the sense that overcame him. He passed a supermarket that was still open and decided to grab some snacks. As he walked towards the tills with crisps and chocolate, however, it seemed impossible to walk past the brandy on the shelf.

The bottle weighed heavy in his bag as he continued onwards and his exhausted mind suggested easing its weighed with a few gulps. Grantaire opened the bottle and chugged a quarter of its contains on the spot before continuing down the road.

He reached the academy another stop at the next supermarket and another bottle of spirit later. Fumbling for the keys, he swayed on the threshold and tried to find the keyhole. The cold still bit at his limbs, and his fingers did little to support his wish to enter the building.

Eventually, Grantaire managed to unlock the door and stumbled into the foyer. The wall space across from the entrance was indeed empty again but he could not bring himself to care what exactly had happened to his painting. He stared at the empty hooks for a moment before he decided to retreat to his studio, rather than climbing the stairs and trying his luck on the lock of the door there.

The diwan, his old friend through long nights and bad decisions, seemed to sigh deeply as he stretched out and buried his head in the cushions. He left the brandy on the table, next to his notebook and pencils. Grantaire groaned into his pillow and pulled his jumper over his head, the studio spaces were heated reasonably well and he wanted to avoid waking up drenched in his own sweat.

Again, he went through his music and selected a gentle playlist that did not attack his ears as he leant back and closed his eyes. Sleep came easy after that.

***

‘Grantaire?’

‘Mhm.’

‘Grantaire!’

‘Yes, I’m awake.’

‘Then show it, man. You have a worried kid on hand.’

‘Gavinou?’

‘Yes, goddamn,’ Bahorel tipped water over his face, ‘get up and to fucking work. Gavroche woke us up this morning because you weren’t there.’

‘That kid gets too attached,’ more water hit his face, ‘would you stop that!’

‘Only if you stop being a fucking idiot! Gavroche moved in because his parents left him alone, and a week later you decide it’s a good idea to just disappear overnight? You are responsible for him now, so don’t go pulling stunts like that. What were you even thinking?’

‘I didn’t want to wake him up. He sleeps in the fucking living room and it was late, he would have woken up,’ Grantaire wiped his face dry and sat up.

‘How nice of you. Are you sure it’s not the obvious proof of those bottles there?’ Bahorel nodded in the general direction of the empty bottles, ‘You caved in, didn’t you? Got drunk after your fucking entrance at the _Musain_ yesterday?’

‘I meant every word.’

‘I know. We all knew, hell, Enjolras knew! And he treated you like a joke, which he really shouldn’t have done, I know! The moment you left, he got yelled at from all sides. Even Marius was cross with him. And it worked, somehow.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Courfeyrac and Combeferre sided with you. They agreed you had a point and we needed to re-evaluate our proposition when it comes to the Christmas charity. Cosette pointed out that people are more likely to donate money for a cause of which they can see the effects close up.’

‘To which effect?’

‘We’re doing it. Enjolras agreed to support your idea of the Christmas charity. You should probably still talk to him, I don’t think he’s used to a debate partner walking out on him like you did.’

‘He threatened to punch me.’

‘I know, we all heard him,’ Bahorel sighed and patted his back, ‘and I’m sure he regrets that now. Go see him and try to have an actual talk.’

‘Sure. You pay for the funeral?’

‘If I say Yes, will you talk to Enjolras? I think you really need to sort out a few things. Because, belive it or not, you have similar interests at heart.’

‘Keep talking, it sounds so nice,’ Grantaire groaned and buried his head in the cushions.

Bahorel’s hand landed on his shoulder, grabbed his t-shirt and pulled. Grantaire flailed his arms and lashed at him but could hardly break his fall as he fell to the ground.

‘Thank you,’ he coughed, ‘I’m up, I’m up – don’t you worry.’

He grabbed his belongings, chucked the empty bottles in the bin and pulled his jumper back on. Bahorel followed him, arms crossed over his chest and a smirk on his lips.

‘Go find Gavroche before you apologise to Enjolras for being as hot-headed as him. And make him apologise as well.’

Grantaire rolled his eyes and threw him a two-fingered salute as Bahorel turned to the left to get to his studio, leaving him to make his way back upstairs. It took him longer than expected, the dread of what expected him at the end of the climb. He cleared his throat and stomped his feet a little before actually opening the door.

‘Hello there,’ he dropped his bag in the hallway and walked through to the living room, ‘Gavroche, you here?’

‘Grantaire?’ The boy sat on the sofa, his phone in one hand, the other in a bag of crisps, ‘Bossuet said you’d be back soon. That was yesterday evening!’

‘I’m sorry,’ Grantaire sat down next to him, ‘I really am. I was back really late and didn’t want to wake you up. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier but I was out of it by the time I got back. Do you think you’ll be able to forgive me?’

‘Idiot,’ Gavroche shook his head, ‘you got drunk and were too ashamed to come home. Joly told me what happened between you and Enjolras last night. I thought you had fallen asleep outside the door or in the park. My father once slept behind a dumpster because he couldn’t remember how to get home. I’ve seen the whole thing before.’

‘I didn’t sleep behind a dumpster. I have my studio.’

‘Doesn’t make it better,’ Gavroche grumbled and continued playing on his phone, ‘you didn’t tell Joly or Bossuet either. We all sat together after they came back without you.’

Grantaire ran his fingers through his hair. He wanted to tell the boy just how sorry he was for distressing him, leaving him and his friends to wait for a message that did not arrive.

‘Did you sleep a little?’

‘Yes,’ Gavroche finally looked up, ‘wasn’t fun.’

‘I know.’

‘Are you going to see Enjolras now?’

‘He’s probably gonna yell at me. Or hit me. And I would agree, I deserve it.’

‘No shit, Sherlock.’

‘You gonna be grumpy for the rest of the day?’

‘Nah, just until Enjolras has given you a piece of his mind. You won’t need my held grudges then.’

‘Thank you,’ Grantaire pushed himself back up with a sigh, ‘I’m going to shower and prepare something to eat. Are Joly and Bossuet out?’

‘Downstairs. I want chocolate.’

‘Pancakes it is,’ Grantaire smiled weakly before seeking the solitude of his room for a moment to find fresh clothes and take a shower, ‘don’t start baking without me, okay?’

He found his comfy clothes, grabbed a fresh towel out of his closet and set off back to the bathroom. Within minutes, the warm shower made his shoulders feel more relaxed and woke him up a little. Despite his shower, he still felt the heavy weight of having disappointed almost all of his friends in one way or another. And, beyond that, it had taken him only a few hours to accomplish it.

‘Are you done yet?’ Gavroche knocked on the door, ‘I want my pancakes and I don’t want to eat more chocolate spread without them.’

Grantaire stopped the water, ‘I better find you far away from the toppings when I come out. It’s no good eating pancakes without anything on top.’

‘Hurry up, then. You owe me.’

Grantaire wrapped his towel around himself and let his head hang for a second. Gavroche held dominion over him, despite what he was willing to admit. He had intended to do better and be someone who did right by him. Breaking after less than a week showed him just how ambitious he had been in his decision. His fingers had begun to shake and he had wished he could blame it on something other than withdrawal.

‘There you are,’ Gavroche greeted him when he left the bathroom, face smudged with chocolate, ‘I thought you had tried to drown yourself after making a scene in front of your piano player.’

‘Pianist. The proper word is pianist,’ Grantaire sighed and ruffled Gavroche’s hair, ‘let’s go make some pancakes.’

‘Can we listen to music?’

‘Sure.’

‘Can I have your phone?’

Gavroche hopped on the counter with Grantaire’s phone and proceeded to scroll through his playlists, whilst Grantaire mixed dough and heated the pan. He picked one with more upbeat songs and swayed on the spot, whistling through his teeth. Grantaire bobbed his head in time with the music and tapped his foot, whilst baking the first batch of pancakes.

He slid them onto a plate and motioned for Gavroche to assemble whatever toppings he wanted. Gavroche grinned and held out a hand, demanding the pancakes to be handed over. Grantaire tossed the next pancake and set the pan back down, humming along to the next song that came on.

‘When are you going to see Enjolras?’ Gavroche paused the music, ‘are you going to his music room later?’

‘No, I don’t think he would want to see me this soon after. I think it’s safe to say that we both can hold a grudge. And he is potentially even better at it than I am.’

‘You are both complete muppets,’ Gavroche rolled his eyes, ‘and to think that you call yourselves adults.’

‘Hey,’ Grantaire shook his head, ‘don’t push it too far.’

He had to turn away to hide his grin. The boy started a different playlist; piano chords flooded the kitchen and then, a bar in, a violin joined and took the melody. Longdrawn notes merged into a wistful, melancholic, yet hopeful tune as the tune soared high. The piano never left its harmonies and completed the pleasant music.

‘Really? Are you kidding me, you are playing Elgar?’

‘What’s so bad about the song, it sounds nice.’

‘That piece,’ Grantaire waved the spatula at him, ‘is called _Salut d’amour_ , not really what I expected you to go for.’

‘So what, I like mushy music and you keep it in a playlist called _Meeting at Midnight_. Who’s the lovey-dovey fool now?’

‘I never said anything about love,’ Grantaire flipped another pancake, ‘hey, did you hear that?’

They fell silent for a moment. A quiet knock on the door had them exchange looks, Grantaire shrugged and hopped off the counter, ‘I’ll get it.’

Grantaire turned back to the stove and slid another pancakes onto the pile on the plate. The violin still flattered its piano backing and flittered around the kitchen. He hummed along and moved his feet to the soft sound.

‘Hi, I was promised pancakes?’

‘Enjolras!’ Grantaire dropped the spatula which missed his foot by mere centimetres, just as the melody picked up in strength, passion and force, ‘What are you doing here?’

‘You invited me over for pancakes?’ Enjolras stood in the kitchen door and pulled on the sleeves of his jumper, ‘The text?’

‘Oh, the text,’ Grantaire threw Gavroche a stern look but the boy just shrugged, grinned and dipped his fingers in the chocolate spread, ‘I have pancakes, yes.’

Enjolras came into the kitchen and joined Gavroche at the counter. Both watched Grantaire as he finished off another batch of pancakes.

‘Do you take sprinkles and chocolate sauce?’

‘Oh yes please, sir,’ Enjolras took the plate Gavroche held out for him with a smile, ‘I brought strawberry sauce by the way, Courf is hardly going to miss it.’

‘Stealing from a comrade? How could you,’ Grantaire turned around to face them with a grin, ‘but I also love strawberry sauce.’

‘I had an inkling,’ Enjolras set down the sauce, ‘and I wanted to talk to you.’

Grantaire switched off the stove and slipped the last pancake onto the pile, ‘Take yours to the living room and pick a movie, Gavinou. This is going to be a very lazy day.’

Gavroche grabbed his plate and left the kitchen. He looked through the DVD collection on the shelves when Grantaire checked a few moments later.

‘He should be busy for a few minutes,’ he told Enjolras, ‘we can talk. But I would just like to mention that I am sorry for challenging you like that last night. I had had a weird conversation with Gavroche that was still on my mind when I came to the _Musain_ and it clouded my judgement.’

‘Grantaire,’ Enjolras put a hand on his arm, ‘even though you challenged my patience, I should not have snapped at you. Yes, you tested my determination but you showed clear passion in that moment and I dismissed that. You must have heard that all of them yelled at me afterwards and voted to hold the Christmas charity as you suggested.’

‘Bahorel told me,’ Grantaire nodded, ‘do you really consider it?’

‘Consider? We are a democratic society, despite everything you might believe. What did you have in mind for the actual event?’

‘Not much,’ Grantaire admitted with a shrug, ‘a flea market, second hand clothes? Food, music, games?’

‘Where would you stage such a thing?’ Enjolras took another plate and pulled a pancake off the pile before squirting strawberry sauce on top of it, ‘You would need a lot of space and the possibility of a flea market doesn’t make it easier.’

‘My boss offered the museum the other day.’

‘The museum? A Christmas charity event for kids in the museum? Well, Jehan would be down, I suppose,’ Enjolras smiled and shook his head, ‘their head is full of fantasies that take place in a museum.’

‘And if you believe Bahorel, most of them have already been lived and converted into reality,’ Grantaire rolled his eyes, ‘they sure have a weird mind, I give you that.’

‘I picked a move,’ Gavroche yelled from the living room, ‘are you coming soon?’

‘Yes,’ Grantaire shouted back. He turned back around to Enjolras, ‘listen, I said things yesterday, things I don’t mean –‘

‘You meant them. Don’t take it back now. It was refreshing to see you get that passionate about something,’ Enjolras gave him a cautious smile, ‘now, shouldn’t we be eating pancakes and watch whatever doubtful movie Gavroche picked?’

Grantaire nodded, grabbed the plate of pancakes and the strawberry sauce and motioned for Enjolras to take what was left of the toppings. They joined Gavroche who waited patiently, the menu of a Disney movie still flickering on the screen.

‘You took your time,’ he made grabby hands for the pancakes, ‘I was close enough to starting without you. Have you settled your silly argument? Actually, do you ever not argue? No matter who I ask, everybody keeps telling me that you can’t be in the same room for too long.’

‘Who said that?’ Grantaire asked through a mouth full of pancake.

‘Bahorel, Bossuet and your freckly friend at Joly’s birthday dinner,’ Gavroche shrugged.

Grantaire exchanged a look with Enjolras, ‘Marius.’

‘We have settled our argument,’ Enjolras concluded, sitting cross legged in an armchair, back straight as he cut his pancake, ‘Les Amis are going to organise a charity event for children from disadvantaged backgrounds who wouldn’t get to celebrate Christmas otherwise, seizing Grantaire’s idea.’

‘Grantaire’s idea?’ Gavroche turned around to look at him, Grantaire busied himself with his plate, ‘Are you telling me that –‘

‘He fought passionately for it,’ Enjolras nodded and scooped up another pancake from the pile, ‘including screaming at me that I am not human enough to care about the closest problems to our society. Basically, I was forced by our friends to reconsider my point. Could you hand me the sprinkles, please?’

Gavroche stared at him for another moment before turning and throwing himself into Grantaire’s arms, burying his face in the crook of his neck, ‘Thank you. You are the best!’

Grantaire wrapped his arms around him and cleared his throat. He patted his hair softly and smiled, trying his best not to cry.

Over the head of his young lodger, he could still see Enjolras bite back a smile that still lit up his eyes. A raised eyebrow arched over the amused face and Grantaire threw him a warning look. He lasted all of three seconds before he had to scrunch up his face to stop a tear from slipping down his cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](url)!


	31. Chapter Thirty-One

‘Are you sure about this?’ Enjolras whispered, following Grantaire through the living room.

He tiptoed past the sofa, carefully avoiding the coffee table and the used plates in front of it. Grantaire could feel him close behind him, breathing quietly, the borrowed sweatpants and cosy socks gliding over the hardwood floor.

‘I am confident in saying it’s one of my better ideas,’ he whispered, ‘definitely one of the better ones in the past few days.’

Grantaire pushed his room door open with one foot, taking the last steps carefully, entering his room without switching on the light. Enjolras followed him closely, stepping past him to fold back the blanket and moving the pillows closer together. He stood bowed over the mattress for a moment, stretching out the covers.

‘I think it’s ready,’ he stepped back with a smile, almost hidden in the dark, ‘you sure you can handle it?’

‘Always doubting me,’ Grantaire suppressed a strained groan and moved closer, ‘I can handle a small boy and a few careful steps.’

He set Gavroche down on the bed, trying not to move him in the roll he had curled up into. The boy mumbled in his sleep, turned his head and pressed his face into the pillows. Grantaire pulled the blanket over his body and tucked him in lightly.

When he stepped back, he had a smile on his lips that stretched the corners of his mouth, ‘He’ll sleep bedded soft and warm. That’s the best I can do for him right now. Poor little thing, I might have let him down once too often.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Enjolras left his room carefully, looking back over his shoulder, ‘Gavroche is willing to forgive you a lot more than a night spent worrying. He is a wonderful little rascal, really, I don’t know too many kids but he seems special.’

‘Oh he is, he definitely is,’ Grantaire pulled the door closed and faced Enjolras with a smile, ‘hey, would you care for dessert? I think we still have some microwavable chocolate puddings.’

‘Seems alright to me,’ Enjolras sat back down and watched as Grantaire scooped up the used cutlery, ‘why didn’t you close the door completely? What if we wake Gavroche?’

Grantaire smiled and grabbed the catfood off the top of the fridge. He filled one bowl and poured water in another. Setting them down, he peered over his shoulder and beckoned softly.

Adonis meowed, prowled into the living room and stretched his body in front of the sofa before eventually joining Grantaire in the kitchen. He mewled and pushed his head into the hand Grantaire offered him.

‘Good evening, monsigneur,’ Grantaire cooed and stroked his fur, ‘how nice of you to join us. I know you only come for the food but I am willing to offer you all the pets and strokes in the world.’

Adonis mewled again and flicked his tail under his nose. Grantaire chuckled through the mouthful of fur he got and got up.

‘Enjoy your meal, your highness.’

‘What is that?’

‘That, Enjolras, is my cat, Adonis. I found and adopted him.’

‘When?’

‘When I went out with Claquesous.’

Enjolras arched an eyebrow, ‘So it was a drunken decision?’

‘Of course it was. But one of the better ones, I wouldn’t part with Adonis, even if I was promised eternal sobriety.’

‘You really named your cat Adonis?’ Enjolras grinned and leant forward to catch another look at the cat, ‘I mean, he is a handsome lad, no doubt.’

‘He definitely is,’ Grantaire rejoined Enjolras in the living room, ‘and now he even has a home.’

Adonis meowed his approval from the kitchen, making both chuckle.

‘Shall we head downstairs? You should bring your sketchbook,’ Enjolras smoothed his hair down and behind his ears, ‘I had some time to study more Chopin.’

‘You had me at ‘bring your sketchbook’,’ Grantaire grinned and grabbed his bag from where it still sat, ‘you still comfortable in my old sweatpants?’

‘Jeans did get quite painful after the third movie,’ Enjolras winked at him, ‘I have a lot of room in these pockets.’

‘You’re welcome. I’m sure you appreciate my waist-located padding now,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘getting back in shape is harder than people appreciate.’

‘What do you mean?’ Enjolras opened the door for both of them.

‘I have started training again. With Baz. It’s slow work but I’ll get there eventually,’ Grantaire grabbed his keys and stepped into the hallway, ‘he will love to tell you all the stories of how often he has knocked me onto my butt.’

‘I’m sure there are many of that.’

They closed the door and walked towards the staircase in the darkness of the hallway, not needing any light after years of practice and experience. Enjolras hummed a tune as they took step after step, something eerily familiar. Hum turned into whistle and Grantaire, recognising the tune, stared at him in disbelief.

‘Are you seriously whistling the Marseillaise?’

The whistling stopped, ‘Why not? It’s catchy.’

‘You have a point,’ Grantaire chuckled and skipped a few steps ahead, ‘Allons enfants de la Patrie, le jour de gloire est arrive –‘

‘Yeah, Grantaire? There is a reason why you don’t study music and I think I just found it,’ Enjolras looked at him with something Grantaire would have called an endearing smile, if it had not been coming from Enjolras.

‘I will consider myself burned, then,’ Grantaire waited for Enjolras at the bottom of the stairs, ‘I also offer you a burn in exchange, to be delivered at any time. I might just have to speak to Jehan beforehand.’

‘Do that,’ Enjolras unlocked the door for them and switched the light on, ‘there you go, the armchair is yours. Please use this time, sketch something or start planning the Christmas charity.’

‘Yes, my captain,’ Grantaire stuck his tongue out at his back as Enjolras went through his sheet music, ‘will get right to it.’

He took his seat in Enjolras’ armchair and pulled his feet under his body. Whilst Enjolras opened a music book, he opened his sketchbook to a new page and licked his pencil, determined to put something to the paper, commit to an idea that was going to stay on the blank space, fill and enrich it.

‘Chopin,’ Enjolras leaned back on his stool and tapped his lips with a pencil, ‘I had a look at a few etudes recently, have you got any favourites?’

Grantaire looked up and blinked at him, ‘Favourite Chopin etude? There are a lot of them, Apollo, don’t you know that? I have listened to most of them at least a few times and – wow, I really don’t know.’

Enjolras nodded carefully and set the music book down on the piano. He studied the notes carefully for a moment and set his hands on the keys. Grantaire settled back into the seat and let his legs dangle over the armrest.

A first note tested the waters, hanging in the air between them. Another note followed, clinging to the first with the might of a thunderstorm that continued into the next bars and runs.

‘Classy,’ Grantaire murmured and nodded along, ‘ _Torrent_. Good choice. I always felt swept off my feet hearing this.’

‘Allow me to sweep you off your feet then,’ Enjolras’ voice interwove with the melody, caressing the scaling notes and skipping left hand.

The rolling accompaniment, the exulting runs and breakneck flying changes flooded into the room between them. Without another word being uttered, Grantaire got to his work as Enjolras leaned into every single note, coaxing its essence out of the simple sound it omitted into the air. His head dart back and forth, he seemed to jump on the stool as his feet worked the pedal and his fingers seemed to stab the keyboard. A small ritardando held Grantaire’s thoughts on edge for a moment as higher scaling notes ebbed into a seceding succession. His fingers never stopped working, the ritardando being no exception, one note chased the next, toppled over the suspense arc and hurried to complete the picture of the rolling sea or waves the piece painted.

Grantaire could see the water in uproar, it seemed so clear in front of his eyes. The grey waters restless, threatening everybody who turned their back. In a way, it seemed like a piece he should have come across before. It called out to something in his mind, something that seemed to linger and wait for him to explore it a little more. The melody rallied his thoughts, shook them up and made him eager to get something done. Enjolras looked up over the piano and gave him a small smile. His hair had once again slipped out of its tie, Grantaire could not recall seeing him in his music room without being slightly dishevelled.

The almost abrupt ending of the etude made him set down his pencil. Enjolras stared into his music book, no movement betraying his thoughts as he massaged his fingers.

‘Are you okay? Did you pull something?’

‘I’m okay,’ Enjolras moved on the stool, ‘I love the etudes but tonight calls for something else. I play these all the time, I should play something else.’

‘You wanted to come here for some Chopin.’

‘Yes, but I could also play Beethoven, Grieg, Mahler or Bach.’

‘Or Händel, Ravel, Elgar or Bruckner,’ Grantaire grinned into his sketchbook, ‘Saint-Saëns would also be an option. But then again, anything you play will be amazing.’

‘Stop it.’

‘I mean it,’ Grantaire nodded to emphasise his words, ‘just play what you feel like playing? A piece that mirrors your feelings and puts you at ease for a bit?’

‘You mean play what I want, not thinking about assignments and practise schedules,’ Enjolras shut the etude music book and tapped on the piano with his fingers, ‘your mother wrote an article about that, once. Have you read it?’

‘I gave up on my mother’s articles when she laid into my practise habits,’ Grantaire shrugged and crossed his legs at the ankles, ‘I suppose it tells you not to play music you are not set to practise? No playing for fun and pastime?’

‘No, she actually wrote about how it would improve to have pieces to play that don’t require the pressure of success and recitals,’ Enjolras pulled a magazine out of a stack of files and opened it to a dogeared page, ‘here, she talks about how much you enjoyed playing the _Well-Tempered Piano_ for fun. Was that before you stopped liking Bach?’

Grantaire bit down on his lip, ‘It was before I stopped liking a lot of things.’

He made himself smile, forcing it to seem normal. It hurt at the corners of his mouth but Enjolras seemed to buy it. The thought of his mother making money off stories about his ruined childhood and the influence she had taken on his development as a musician – up until he could no longer bear it – made him feel a blinding rage that to surpress he had gotten too good at. Enjolras, however, still emulated his mother, not knowing what stood between her and her son, not thinking about anything that could disturb the peaceful happy family she painted in her articles and interviews. No one even questioned why her precious son was never around when she visited the academy which, according to her latest interview, held out to him by Enjolras, was one of her favourite places in the world.

‘Will your mother be back for the Christmas gala and _Dean’s Award_?’ Enjolras’ question ripped him out of the pool of darkness, pity and despair he could drown himself in whenever he felt like it; its edge never crumbling under his feet, waiting for him to finally jump.

Grantaire looked over the magazine and met Enjolras’ gleaming, happy eyes, the eyes of somebody who had met their childhood hero and had not been disappointed. He seemed to glow, giddy with the excitement of the possibility of another meeting.

‘I don’t know. Valjean makes quite the secret about it,’ he answered, seeking the excuse rather than the disappointing truth of lacking communication between him and his mother, ‘if she is, I would probably be the last one to know.’

It sounded like a joke. And Enjolras took it as such, judging by the grin that captured his face.

‘She’ll be proud to see you receive the _Dean’s Award_ , then,’ he swivelled on his stool, blowing a loose strand of hair out of his face.

Grantaire spluttered, ‘You are joking, right? There is no way in hell I would –‘

‘Hey now, you painted the single most impressive painting that an academy student has ever produced. The governours have to put you up for a nomination; otherwise, I will have to get _Les Amis_ on the case.’

Grantaore swallowed and shook his head, ‘Don’t you have a piano piece to play?’

‘I will get there,’ Enjolras waved him off, ‘did Lafayette tell you what happened to the painting?’

‘Not after I threw a tantrum in his office, demanding it be taken down,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘I don’t really care. I’ll won’t see it again until the end of the term when we get all the artwork to carry it over to the studios.’

‘Will you display it again?’

‘Do you want to see your face off a wall again? I begged Lafayette to take it away because I was mortified of the way it made me seem – to others and to you.’

‘Why would you worry about that?’ Enjolras filed through his music library, ‘The painting is breathtakingly beautiful; you captured a mood so distinct and looming, I stared at it for a good five minutes before Combeferre told me it looked a bit like me.’

He began another piece. This time, a calmer melody enthralled Grantaire. It was soothing and hopeful, solemn and majestic as it set out to paint a picture. A quiet, hammering accompaniment left enough space for the melody that nestlded itself in Grantaire’s ears. He hummed along under his breath as his pencil made wide movements, finishing long brushes and lines.

The careful keychange, scaling the melody in higher octaves and biding developments had his attention immediately. Grantaire followed them, his foot tapping as the speed picked up marginally. A crescendo section had him on the edge of his seat one second and made him sink back into the armchair as it picked up. He felt dizzy, his eye lids seemed heavy and the world turned in front of his eyes. It seemed to stop, screeching to a halt silently, and the vertigo it inflicted on his brain made him squeeze his eyes shut to avoid toppling over in the chiar. The melody continued a little on the muted side, still driven but softer. Grantaire opened his eyes again and gasped for air. The next crescendo hit a spot behind his ribs and he closed his eyes another time to avoid the whiplash. Listening turned into an emotional rollercoaster: another soft section was ended by another powerful crescendo that had him struggle to breathe before the melody bled into something so soft Enjolras’ fingers hardly touched the keys.

As the last note faded into the room between them, Enjolras looked up and lifted his hands off the keyboard. His foot on the pedal kept the wavering tone up in the air as he turned around.

‘That was beautiful,’ Grantaire swallowed, ‘Beethoven?’

‘ _Pathétique_ , second movement,’ Enjolras smiled, ‘by the way, I never minded you painting that picture.’

‘You didn’t?’

‘Actually, it was flattering to think someone would actually spend time working on something I inspired, somehow. I don’t think artists should be held responsible or harassed about where they get their ideas from. It’s called Liberal Arts for a reason. Anything else would be censorship, I cannot demand you regulate your inspirational flow.’

‘That sounded way sweeter than you probably meant it to sound,’ Grantaire clicked his pencil, ‘I’m still sorry about just…painting it.’

‘I have to say, it would have been nice to know about it. Imagine the thrill to see what it turned out or just getting to see it before anybody else,’ Enjolras smiled, a little tense around the eyes and with too stiff shoulders, ‘I was happy to see you getting the credit you deserve, for once. I had a very long, very intense talk with Feuilly and Courfeyrac. Although, Combeferre joined us as well at some point, I think. He shared some wonderful insight in your technique, did you know he started studying art but stopped when Lafayette got him tickets to see the touring orchestra that rented the auditorium a couple of years back. He was supposed to make up a project about displaying music in pictures – instead, he went on to compose a cello concert and changed courses.’

‘I did not know that,’ Grantaire sat up, ‘he must have been inspired, then.’

‘Totally,’ Enjolras closed his music book, ‘he didn’t stop to come watch movies with Courf and me.’

‘Was that before they got together?’ Grantaire followed Enjolras’ every move as he got some crisps out of the small cabinet.

‘No, actually, must have been shortly before or after their first date. I am not too sure about the exact timings,’ Enjolras shrugged and held the snacks out for Grantaire, ‘I don’t think they would know when exactly they got together. I, in return, would then insist on it being when Courfeyrac did unspeakable things to my apron…’

He trailed off and shook his head.  Grantaire, on the other hand, was too afraid to ask what Courfeyrac had done to his apron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say Hello on [Tumblr](https://edgy-fluffball.tumblr.com/)!


	32. Chapter Thirty-Two

He got back later than he had expected. Enjolras and his secret crisps stack had kept him, despite the lack of any more piano playing commencing in the room, leaving the air between them still and calm. They had made tea, eaten crisps and come up with preposterous ideas for the Christmas charity. Between a bouncy castle in the sculptures wing of the museum and jousting with the exhibited suits of armour, Enjolras had asked him a few times just how much he had had to drink beforehand. Grantaire knew he did not believe him when he proclaimed to be sober.

As he flopped down on the sofa, his notebook hit the coffee table. It seemed to drop heavy, filled with ideas and keywords, thoughts and prompts they would have to think about more with _Les Amis_ before setting things into motion.

Grantaire stretched out on the sofa and pulled a blanket over his feet. He buried his head in the cushions and pillows, rolled into the backrest and closed his eyes. As he drifted off, he could imagine just how colourful and lively the museum would be once everything was agreed on.

***

When he woke up again, it was with a heavy weight on his legs and his face pressed into a pillow. He blinked through a curtain of his own hair brushed over his eyes and groaned as the weight on his legs shifted.

‘Did I wake you up?’ Gavroche shovelled cereal out of a box and into his mouth, ‘Sorry, but I wanted to watch that.’

Grantaire tried to brush his hair out of his face, scrunched up his nose and yawned. Gavroche was watching an animated programme about superheroes, he seemed glued to the screen whilst he ate his cereal, spreading crumbs over the blanket covering Grantaire’s legs, on which he still perched.

‘Why did I wake up in your bed this morning?’

‘Because you fell asleep on the sofa and made it impossible to have a conversation anywhere else.’

‘You could have taken Enjolras to your room,’ Gavroche grinned and winked at him, hissmall face lighting up, ‘I don’t think he would have minded spending some time with you in your dark room, sitting on your bed, having to feel instead of see –‘

Grantaire whacked a pillow over his head, ‘We carried you without dropping you, squirt, is that really what you want to go on about?’

Gavroche shrugged, ‘Just saying. Enjolras doesn’t seem too bothered by your multiple flaws, at least not as much as other people probably would be.’

‘What do you mean?’ Grantaire pushed himself up and retracted his legs from underneath the weight of a twelve year old who tried to make it hard for him, ‘please, explain my many flaws to me and I will get Enjolras to rethink _Les Amis’_ Christmas charity event.’

‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ Gavroche set down the cereal box, ‘you say stuff like that and it’s supposed to be a threat; but all I hear is you trying to be tough. You are a kitten, that’s why Adonis loves you so much, he can take care of you. You are soft.’

‘How is that a disadvantage?’ He ruffled his hair, ‘All I hear is that I’m a nice person to be around.’

‘And you have a point,’ Gavroche gave up and scooted to the far end of the sofa, ‘You are the best. But I don’t need to tell you that. You allowed Éponine to store me here whilst my parents lost another of their kids due to their own shit being more important than something they created. You went to a _Les Amis_ meeting to yell at Enjolras who you definitely stare at too often and make googly eyes at, and you got him to think about your idea and follow up on it. If Enjolras asked, you would paint him as the leader of all countries and give it away for free. If Enjolras wanted you to draw a Christmas portrait of him and his wife and kids, you would do it and smile because it made him happy. If someone outed you in a public place, you would shrug and defend them. If Montparnasse came back and asked you to forgive him, you would do it. That’s what I mean when I say you’re soft.’

Grantaire cleared his throat. Something in Gavroche’s look made him aware of what the boy had gone through in recent days. His eyes, still round and child-like, expressed a hardness Grantaire had only seen in adults, adults who had been through so much that they had given up almost all hope. The hard blue behind a veil of barely hidden incomprehension hardly made up for the softness Gavroche still showed around his cheeks. Grantaire did not plan on being the person to point out these clear indicators of childhood to the boy.

‘If that makes me soft,’ he began, clearing his throat again, ‘then I don’t want to change it. If kindness and an open mind make me soft, so be it. I allowed Éponine to bring you here because I had a talk with my flatmates first. I challenged Enjolras over something that I think is continuous in his approach to activism – and I do not make googly eyes at him. Yes, I would paint Enjolras again, and again, if he asked. If someone outed me in a public place, I would tell them they are years too late to actually embarrass me about who I am. And if Montparnasse came and apologised to me, I would tell him that I forgive him, yes. Because that’s the kind of person I am and it’s the best I can be.’

‘You drink too much.’

‘I am legally allowed to.’

‘You don’t talk to your parents.’

‘With my mum? No, thank you.’

‘You don’t tell your friends when you feel horrible.’

‘What good would it be to drag them down?’

‘You told Ép.’

‘She was in the coffee shop and wanted to know why I looked so bad.’

‘You still haven’t told Joly and Bossuet what happens when you have an episode.’

‘I really shouldn’t have told Éponine. She tells you everything!’

‘I’m her brother!’

‘You are twelve.’

Gavroche opened his mouth, ready to respond.

‘Are you two arguing?’ Bossuet entered the room, a blanket pulled around his shoulders, ‘Stop it, you are going to wake Joly.’

‘I trust you are perfectly capable of doing that yourself,’ Grantaire watched as the blanket got tangled and jammed under the door, closing it behind his friend with a slam as Bossuet pulled it free, ‘that should do the trick.’

A moment later, as he had expected, Joly stuck his head out of their bedroom; he yawned and leaned heavily on his cane, ‘What’s going on out here? Some people are trying to sleep.’

‘It’s Sunday. A day off, you should enjoy your free time,’ Gavroche returned to his cereal box.

‘Yes, I should. But then again, why would I get up? Every minute I am awake, I miss a minute I could spend in my bed, asleep with a pillow under my head.’

He sat down next to Grantaire and held out a hand towards Gavroche, motioning to share his cereal. The boy rolled his eyes but handed over some sugary treats.

‘I have homework to do,’ he declared and shrugged, ‘don’t have much time else. Éponine told me I could do my work at the coffee shop.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ Grantaire agreed with another yawn, ‘I’ll drop you off once my feet stop being all pins and needles. Can you move off my legs, please?’

Gavroche did as asked and slid off his seat. They finished the programme, Joly and Bossuet curled up on the loveseat, Grantaire and Gavroche on the sofa. It took Gavroche only the last minutes to finish the cereal. Once the credits crawled over the screen, they moved again and got ready. Grantaire pulled his jumper over his head and pocketed his phone and keys in his joggers. Gavroche brushed his teeth and grabbed his bag from where he had left it in the hallway, pretending like he was impatiently waiting.

They passed a few students who looked at Grantaire, seemingly wondering what he was doing with a child, on a Sunday morning, in the university buildings. They ignored them masterfully, Grantaire opened the door and Gavroche slipped past him.

‘Shall I come by to pick you up later?’

‘I’m not a baby,’ Gavroche snuffled, ‘I could actually just come back, I have the key.’

‘True,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘don’t know whether Joly and Bossuet will be in, though, and I might head to the gym. Shoot me a text when you have enough of your sister?’

‘I’m telling her you said that.’

‘You need to pay more attention. Stuff like that should only be said to people who care,’ Grantaire ruffled the boy’s hair with a smirk, ‘Plus, Éponine will never take any of my shit badly.’

Gavroche furrowed his brows and seemed lost in thought until they reached the coffee shop. He pushed the door open and waved at Éponine behind the counter. She replied in the same manner and motioned for him to come up to the counter.

‘Grantaire said a bad language word,’ Gavroche peeked out under his hat and scarf, back to where Grantaire had stopped in the door.

Éponine stared at her brother with an impervious look before she shrugged and turned back around, ‘Grantaire has kindly taken you in after our piece of shit parents left you here. He can use whatever words he wants, for all I care.’

Grantaire could not resist the grin that spread over his face. He strutted past the boy, clapping his shoulder which got him a puffed out chest and a tiny huff.

‘Morning, Ép,’ he got a hug and a tired smile from her which seemed enough to show him that she was neither rested nor overworked, something seemingly perfect for Éponine’s usual schedule.

‘Morning,’ she handed him a mug of coffee, still steaming and filled to the brim, ‘how are you holding up with the little nuisance around the flat?’

‘Surprisingly well, yet relieved you are going to take him off my hands for a day,’ Grantaire grinned back at where Gavroche was in the process of setting up his home office, everything included he would need for his homework, ‘are you okay around here?’

‘It’s my brother, Grantaire, he’s been trying to drive me mad for twelve years now and so far, he has not succeeded,’ Éponine gave him a soft nudge to the shoulder, ‘Relax and enjoy the day off babysitter duty. What are you going to do with all the free time?’

‘Probably harass Baz into training. If that fails, scavenge Jehan’s kitchen and lock myself into the studio.’

‘Sounds like a plan, do you want a muffin for the walk home?’

‘Thank you, Ép, but I’m really trying to lose weight, rather than gain it,’ Grantaire motioned towards his belly, ignoring Gavroche in the back of the room who had begun to giggle.

She waved him out of the door with a comment on him being a bad customer after she had already gotten him the coffee for free. Grantaire waved a goodbye and wandered down the street, back towards the dorms. In the distance, he could see a few people leave, believing them to be Combeferre, Enjolras and Courfeyrac. Subsequently, despite he told himself something else had been reason for his decision, he did not stop on the music floor and walked straight past his own flat in favour for Jehan’s.

They stood in the kitchen, apron around their waist and wooden spoon in hand. In front of them, on the stove, stood a huge pot that smelled like everything Grantaire ever associated with Christmas. Cinnamon, nutmeg, orange, ginger and cloves seemed to dominate the mix as Jehan stirred and sniffed.

‘What are you brewing today?’ Grantaire peeked over their shoulder, ‘smells heavenly!’

‘Mulled grape juice and mulled wine jam,’ they pecked his cheek, ‘you are most welcome to help me with the heavy lifting, I don’t feel like doing it.’

‘Sure,’ he straightened the jam jars that were set out to be filled, ‘will I get a glass to compensate me?’

‘Yes, but only the grape juice version for you, this year. You ate too much of it last year.’

‘That was whilst I had to stay with my parents for two weeks over Christmas. Your jam was the only spark of hope during dark times, and I made sure it kept me warm.’

‘You are getting more and more self-destructive by the day, Grantaire. I don’t like the look of what you are getting yourself into – again! We were in this exact position, a few months ago, a year ago. Will you ever remember just how unwell you were at times?’

‘I do remember but it is really just my business.’

‘Except now your friends know what to look out for. You have Gavroche living with you. You have taken on responsibility and none of your friends will allow you to stay in your room for longer than a day.’

Grantaire lifted the heavy pot off the stove, ‘Sure. Help me with the jars. Can you hold them whilst I pour?’

‘Sure, I’ll just grab the gloves,’ Jehan slipped past him, ‘what are your plans then, this Christmas?’

Grantaire filled the first jar, ‘No plans at all, I’ll stay here, work and watch all the movies and shows I didn’t get around to finish before. Maybe, I can even get a head start on next term’s assignments – or some other drawings I meant to finish ages ago.’

‘But Grantaire, that’s not Christmas at all,’ Jehan looked up at him in shock, ‘it’s not even close to what I wished you were going to say. It sounds sad and lonely, everybody else will go home, the academy buildings will be absolutely abandoned!’

‘I know,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘better than last year’s disaster, though. I will never again go home for three weeks of bullying and belittling. Christmas at home is torture, Jehan.’

They pulled a face that expressed their clear disapproval of Grantaire’s decision, ‘You know all of you would take you back home, don’t you? My parents would love to have you.’

‘Your parents have to deal with Baz at it is,’ Grantaire panted and moved along the line of jars Jehan held still in their place for him, ‘I appreciate your concern but I promise you, I’ll be fine.’

They finished filling the jars, Jehan closed and sealed them before lining them up neatly in one corner of the kitchen. Grantaire still smelled and tasted the jam when Bahorel came back from an errand Jehan had just shrugged about. He dropped his bag in the hallway and proceeded to crack his joints, one by one.

‘What’s Grantaire doing here already?’

‘Hoping to get you into the ring again,’ Grantaire shrugged, grinning at his hands rather than looking at his friend, ‘Gavroche is with Éponine and I get to not think about him for a day.’

‘Well, why didn’t you lead with that? I just finished a sculpture and need to do something requiring no fine motoric skills at all,’ Bahorel let his heavy hand fall onto his shoulder, ‘your wish is my command. We can easily spend the whole day at the gym –‘

‘Well, we’ll see about that,’ Jehan raised themselves on their tiptoes and kissed their boyfriend, stopping him from saying another word.

Grantaire shook his head, rolled his eyes and licked the jam off the spoon Jehan had used to stir. Jehan pulled back a moment later to reprimand him and take the spoon away, waving it at him for a moment, almost as if to threaten him with it.

‘I see, I have to kick you out, don’t I? The minute I pay attention to Baz, you will nick whatever jam you can get and the same goes the other way,’ Jehan scolded both of them with a smile.

‘Get your kit, we’re leaving,’ Bahorel stuck his tongue out at Jehan, ‘since we are not wanted here.’

‘You are wanted, just keep off the jam,’ Jehan pecked Bahorel’s cheek, ‘oh, but if you do head out, I could do with some ingredients. There’s a list on the fridge that you can take when you leave.’

‘Of course, my little slave driver,’ Bahorel ruffled their hair carefully and smiled down at them as Jehan stood snuggled in his arms, ‘I’ll drag Grantaire along and get your ingredients. What were you thinking of making?’

‘It’s a surprise, actually. I had the idea this morning,’ Jehan tapped Bahorel’s nose, ‘get me the ingridients and burn off some energy, both of you.’

Grantaire threw him a kiss and slipped out of the room to get his boxing kit. The house seemed quiet, whoever could spent time in their studios and worked, a last attempt to get something done that turned out noteworthy. The Dean’s Gala hung above others like the sword of Damocles. Grantaire could not be bothered to think about the self-important celebration of talent condensed in the academy, rewarded with a book token and a laudation given by the respective tutor or another noteworthy student. The art department, despite its vast influence amongst the departments, seemed to struggle to nominate anyone who was not Feuilly to the point where he had decided not to stand as nominee. This decision had been tied with Feuilly’s status as scholarship student, as he received more funding every time he got nominated and won the prize. It seemed only fair to let him have it, since it helped promote and further develop the extraordinary art Feuilly produced.

Pulling out of the race whenever his name appeared on an official notice board had seemed the smartest move, Grantaire thought as he unlocked his door, not, that it had ever been the case that he had seen his name up there with Feuilly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say Hello on [Tumblr](https://edgy-fluffball.tumblr.com/)


	33. Chapter Thirty-Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is now a Spotify-playlist going with Nocturnal Acquaintances!  
> You can find it [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2vNJ8oZliBj4PmqQv5fVvP)! Enjoy!

Timing was, as Enjolras stressed in a first Monday morning text, pivotal. Grantaire tried to follow his reasoning for whatever he suggested in the group chat but gave up when he started to ask insurance questions. He was ready to throw the towel in and exit the group, when Feuilly chipped in with the question whether Enjolras had met with anyone from the museum. That halted the flood of plans, suggestions and questions for a minute that Enjolras used to text Grantaire directly, asking for a contact at the museum. Grantaire, in turn, texted Madame Lacombe to tell her that an opportunity had arisen to shed some light on the museum and for him to take her up on her offer. After learning about what the event was going to be about, she agreed to meet Enjolras for official arrangements.

It surprised Grantaire to see just how much of an effort Enjolras had made when he met him in the foyer. He had brushed and fixed his hair, wore an ironed shirt – Grantaire had it on good authority that Combeferre did the ironing for their whole flat – and seemed to have polished his shoes. It would have been too much, had he not picked on his nails which seemed to be enough stress on him.

‘There you are,’ Enjolras sounded too relived to come across as condescending as he was probably going for, ‘you are late!’

‘You are a pain,’ Grantaire skipped the last few steps and landed at the bottom of the staircase, ‘I’m here now, what more did you want? I don’t understand why I needed to come, anyway.’

‘You are our contact,’ Enjolras owned the door, motioning for him to get outside, ‘I’m not going to see Madame Lacombe without the person who arranged the meeting in the first place!’

Grantaire had not set foot in Madame Lacombe’s office since his job interview which had been a farce to begin with. Lafayette had recommended him and in theory, that was all she had needed to know. With Enjolras by his side who nervously swayed on his feet as they waited to be allowed in, however, Grantaire meant to feel the pressure of the actual organisation.

Madame Lacombe’s PA asked them into the office and held the door open for them. Grantaire entered a step in front of Enjolras and tried to hide just how his nervousness had affected him. His leg continued to bob after they had taken a seat in front of the curator’s desk.

‘Gentlemen,’ Madame Lacombe set her chair in place, ‘you want to arrange a charity event on the museum grounds before we close for Christmas.’

‘Yes, and we are very grateful to you for seeing us,’ Enjolras shuffled on his chair, ‘as _Les Amis de l’ABC_ , we try to shine a light on issues dear and close to all of humanity, sometimes farther afield, sometimes closer to home. For Christmas this year, we had the idea to adopt a course that would affect our direct surroundings. Our goal is to enable children from socially deprived backgrounds to experience and enjoy the Christmas spirit. For that, we need a venue important enough to get us attention, and ready to be taken over by an external organisation for a day. _Les Amis_ are proud to be part of society and our goal goes beyond watching. As such an organisation, the museum would get enormous media attention and press out of it, something that I would dare call a desirable outcome for you and the institution. After all, providing cultural education to everybody includes children from disadvantaged families but as such, they are often not able to –‘

‘Is he always like that?’ Madame Lacombe turned to look at Grantaire, ‘My, my, what a fiery spirit! Seems like the next student revolution has found its leader.’

Her comment, because Grantaire could not think of another reason, made Enjolras blush. He leaned back into the chair and awaited Madame Lacombe’s next words with tense muscles.

‘However, your idea has potential and shows you genuinely care,’ Grantaire stifled a snigger, ‘what exactly have you planned for this charity event of yours?’

‘We discarded the idea of jousting in the suits of armour.’

‘A very wise idea, Grantaire,’ Madame Lacombe shook her head, ‘Enjolras?’

‘Crafts, Christmas stories, a small treasure hunt and a gift wrapping station,’ Enjolras placed a tidy note on her desk that bore his neat handwriting, outlining their plans and how they would arrange it all.

‘This shows some craftsmanship,’ Madame Lacombe set down her glasses, ‘and I am almost willing to grant you full access. Who can you offer as guarantee, in case something happens? You will hardly expect me to take two students’ word as insurance. We are dealing with historical and cultural artefacts, after all.’

Enjolras offered her a polite smile, ‘Are you acquainted with Professor Lamarque?’

‘A wonderful man, ever the gentleman. He provided a lovely composition for the re-opening after we refurbished and renovated. We were introduced years ago.’

‘He is my guarantee. You are more than welcome to discuss whatever you feel needs further work with him. He fully supports _Les Amis_ and our undertakings,’ Enjolras had put on a serious face, ‘I have permission to speak in his name in this regard.’

Madame Lacombe turned to smile at Grantaire, her lips in a tight smile, ‘Grantaire, you didn’t mention that your friend was a student of Lamarque’s.’

‘Tutee, actually,’ Grantaire grinned, crossing his arms, ‘although, we also have Professor Lafayette’s name to offer.’

‘Lafayette,’ Madame Lacombe stopped him with a wave of her hand, ‘you must know about his reputation around here! Ever the artist, unreliable, never taking things seriously, spending money faster than he can earn it!’

‘Oh, I know,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘it was worth a try.’

Madame Lacombe huffed and turned to face her computer. She typed away on the keyboard for a few moments and Enjolras seemed to grow tenser with every second. He sat on his chair like a squirrel that spotted a cat, ready to bolt or jump, whatever would get him to safety.

‘I can offer you the entrance hall. Grantaire, you’ll function as security and contact name.’

‘But Madame –‘

‘You have worked for us long enough to know that I am not asking,’ she put her glasses back on, ‘you do a great job, Grantaire. After all these months, don’t you think I can trust you with a task like that?’

‘Madame, I am literally the least responsible person that you want on the job. You are asking for it to go all wrong,’ Grantaire found his lungs deprived of air for a moment as he leaned back in his chair, away from his boss who watched him closely out of hawk-like, observant eyes.

‘You are going to be the contact detail,’ she repeated and unscrewed a shiny fountain pen that usually had its place on her desk, ‘you have the museum and some freedoms, we will provide subtle security and the event will be advertised as a joined invitation by the museum and your student group.’

‘As _Les Amis de l’ABC_ and the museum’s invitation,’ Enjolras sat up straight, a spark rekindled in his eyes.

Madame Lacombe pursed her lips for a moment. Her expression froze mid-movement and Grantaire thought he stared death in the face for a moment. His boss’ determination to present the museum as a grateful host and inspiring, charitable organisation were only met by her stubbornness. Between her and Enjolras, he feared, they would lose the museum as venue.

‘Fine,’ Madame Lacombe all but chucked her pen to the side, ‘further arrangements are to be made once I have heard back from Lamarque.’

She motioned for them to leave.

‘Thanks,’ Grantaire nudged Enjolras in the hallway, ‘that was my boss and if you succeeded, I won’t enjoy working there ever again.’

‘Oh come on,’ Enjolras grinned at him, ‘she’s not so bad. Looks like we got our venue, though, now we can get planning and ask around for who wants to cover what.’

‘What you mean is that the group chat is going to blow up with people talking over each other and spamming the whole thing,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘it’ll be hard to filter out the actual contributions.’

‘We have organised other events like that. Believe me, I can filter it all out. Now, that’s that sorted. Are you working later?’

‘No,’ Grantaire shook his head, ‘Any particular reason you’re asking?’

‘Courf and Ferre had this idea to organise a spontaneous dinner for Gavroche. Would you be interested in that? They seemed to have a lot of ideas about what they would put together,’ Enjolras let his shoulders slump for a moment, ‘I agree with Courf, it would be nice for him.’

‘Don’t tell me you have a sweet spot for the little nuisance,’ Grantaire grinned, ‘that’s how he gets you. Once in his net of cheeky comments and constant nagging, you can’t escape him again.’

Enjolras looked up from his phone for a moment, ‘Did he tell you he came to see me in my music room when he first moved in?’

‘I saw you. Walked past the room in the evening. You seemed to have a little fan in him.’

‘He certainly does like the idea of overthrowing all structures and systems that damage those who cannot stand up for themselves. Give me a year and he will be ready to build barricades and defy –‘

‘Tell me now, honestly, are you grooming an army of teenagers to take over the world?’ Grantaire looked at Enjolras with big eyes and feigned shock.

Enjolras replied with a smile and continued onwards down the street, Grantaire following him. He typed away on his phone, composing a rather lengthy text. Grantaire felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and pulled it out.

‘Asking for people to step forward with ideas for the charity event?’

‘Yes. Have you got an idea?’

‘Not really,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘I’m no good with kids.’

‘That’s a plain lie. Gavroche loves you! You tend to make yourself look small but there is no reason for that,’ Enjolras kicked a pebble, ‘Think about it, I’m sure you can contribute. Other than that, would you mind designing a poster?’

‘Christmassy poster? Sure, I can draw something up.’

Enjolras seemed happy enough with his answer. He strutted down the street with a whistle on his lips after having secured the museum as a venue.

***

Gavroche came back from school and dropped his bag in the hallway. He waltzed past Grantaire who leaned in the kitchen door with a cup of tea and dropped on the sofa, a book in his hand. He opened it and lifted it up, closer to his face.

‘You okay?’

‘Mhm.’

‘We’re invited for dinner.’

‘Where?’

‘Courf and Ferre’s.’

‘Is Enjolras going to be there as well?’

‘I believe so,’ Grantaire grinned over his cup of tea as Gavroche lifted his eyes off the book, ‘is that the decisive factor for you?’

‘It makes a difference, I guess,’ Gavroche nodded, ‘why dinner?’

‘Apparently, Courf likes you enough to organise a Welcome-Party. For you, I should clarify,’ Grantaire set the cup down, ‘don’t know when and where exactly he lost his senses.’

‘When?’ Gavroche looked up at him with big eyes, ‘when are we going over?’

Grantaire checked his watch and grinned at him, ‘Right about now, if you’re hungry.’

A moment silence between them was interrupted by the boy’s rumbling stomach. Grantaire ruffled his hair, ‘Go wash your hands and get ready. We need you to get fed.’

They crossed the hallway and knocked on the door, Gavroche seemed jumpy next to him. Combeferre opened the door and the boy slipped past him, leaving him with Grantaire between greeting and entering the flat.

‘That boy…,’ he sighed and held out the bottle of white wine he had bought along, ‘freshly bought today. Courf mentioned he would prepare fish.’

They moved on and found Gavroche already involved in a conversation with Enjolras and Courfeyrac. His hands seemed at risk of hitting somebody passing in the face as he gestured wildly. Judging by Courfeyrac’s enraptured expression, the boy had dug up a tale of extraordinary fascination.

‘Isn’t he cooking?’ Grantaire watched as Combeferre opened the bottle and got some glasses out of the cupboard, ‘not for me, please.’

‘No drink? He abandoned that an hour ago. I mean, he loves cooking but he gets distracted too easily.’

Grantaire shook his head, ‘I’m trying. Don’t blare it into the world, though, it’s new. So you ended up cooking?’

‘As always,’ Combeferre sighed dramatically and stirred a pan, ‘I think I should get them to set the table, we are expecting a few more people.’

‘We do?’

‘The whole of _Les Amis_ agreed to stop by. We like Gavroche!’

‘He does have a certain effect on people, true,’ Grantaire nudged Combeferre in the side, ‘run on and put them to work, I can take over here. I’m not completely useless in the kitchen, after all.’

‘Thanks, R,’ Combeferre took the wine glasses and returned to the living room.

Grantaire could hear him bark orders at Courfeyrac and Enjolras, getting them to extend the table and lay it with, ‘matching sets, goddamnit, Enjolras!’ He grinned and stirred what looked like a prawn risotto and rice.

‘Busy at work?’ Enjolras leaned in the door frame, a glass of wine in his hand, ‘Smells amazing.’

‘Well, I didn’t cook it in the first place,’ Grantaire set aside the wooden spoon before looking up, ‘Oh wow! Don’t move, stay as you are!’

‘Sure, but why?’ Enjolras chuckled.

Grantaire shook his head, he stepped closer to the door and extended a hand, ‘May I?’

Enjolras nodded, a hint of confusion in his eyes. Grantaire cleared his throat and weaved his hand in his undone hair that curled around his shoulders and framed his face. A strand or two fell into his eyes and obscured his expression a little. Grantaire pushed a few strands around and created what he thought to be perfection.

‘May I take a photo? For future reference,’ he asked carefully, ‘I think I might want to draw something resembling you again.’

‘Go for it,’ Enjolras smiled, his voice quiet and gently, ‘you don’t have to ask.’

Grantaire got his phone out and snapped a few photos around Enjolras. It took him about ten to get the angles right but eventually, he was satisfied with the outcome and showed them to Enjolras for judgement who nodded.

Grantaire returned to the stove and Enjolras got a few things out of the cupboard, ‘Would you like something to drink?’

‘Nah, I’m good,’ Grantaire dipped a spoon in the pan to taste the sauce, ‘Combeferre didn’t salt it enough. Oh, do you have any lemonade or coke?’

Enjolras opened the fridge and nodded, ‘I’ve got some for late night study sessions. Shall I get Gavroche a glass?’

‘Hell no,’ Grantaire whirled around, ‘please don’t! I need to get him to bed tonight. Could I have some, though?’

‘You want a coke?’ Enjolras sounded surprised, ‘I mean, sure!’

Grantaire heard him open a bottle and pour a glass. It was placed next to him a moment later and Enjolras returned to the living room.

The doorbell rang and people poured in. Cosette and Marius dropped of a huge bowl with a cooled dessert, Jehan pestered him for a few minutes before Bahorel dragged them away and Joly and Bossuet came to laugh at him. Eventually, Feuilly came to join him in the kitchen.

‘You truly are slaving away here,’ he refilled his glass from the fridge, ‘Enjolras mentioned you offered to tie things up in here?’

‘It was more a case of Combeferre needing to shout at Courf and him,’ Grantaire filled a bowl with sauce, ‘but it does look like I’m about done. Is the table ready?’

‘I believe it is,’ Feuilly peeked into the bowls, ‘this looks promising.’

‘Courf planned the meal, Combeferre cooked it, I just finished it off.’

‘You know what they say, too many cooks spoil the broth.’

Grantaire stuck his tongue out at him and took the first bowl into the living room, ‘Feuilly doesn’t get food, he said it wouldn’t be nice. Courf, where do you want this? There’s more in the kitchen, if anyone wants to give me a hand.’

‘Feuilly! How could you say that?’ Courfeyrac got up from where he sat.

‘It was a joke, Courf, I was kidding. Your cooking is amazing.’

Grantaire spotted Marius hiding a cough in the corner of the room after Cosette elbowed him in the ribs. He grinned and set down the bowl in front of Gavroche who sat enthroned at the head of the table.

‘Okay everybody, dinner is served,’ Combeferre ushered them towards the table, ‘does anybody need a top-up?’

Wine glasses were raised and he went around the table with two bottles. Enjolras got up from the table and got the opened bottle of coke from the fridge, placing it next to Grantaire on the ground, watched by their friends. Grantaire caught Jehan’s watching eyes, they nodded softly and smiled.

Gavroche tried to pester Combeferre into giving him some wine but was put off by Courfeyrac who promised him there was wine in the sauce. Marius began serving and Combeferre sat back down, bowls were passed along the table and food distributed.

Enjolras lasted almost fifteen minutes of chit-chat before he cleared his throat, ‘I’ve been thinking. Since all of us are around now, how about we collect ideas for the charity event? As I – be quiet, Grantaire – as I understand, it is partly that you brought the idea up to help Gavroche.’

Grantaire rolled his eyes, ‘This was supposed to be a friendly dinner, not a rally.’

‘Grantaire –‘

‘Just once, boys, just once!’

‘Friends, brain owners and those without,’ Jehan pushed their chair back, ‘Grantaire, that’s you right now. There is really no need whatsoever to start an argument now. Gavroche is having a really nice evening, all of us are. I, for my part, am going to offer reading Christmas stories, Enjolras.’

Grantaire busied himself with his cutlery as his friends one by one came forward with their ideas for the event. They ranged from crafting Christmas decorations with Cosette to a treasure hunt with an elf, as Courfeyrac explained his idea. Bossuet and Joly had thought of a sitting-down activity in wrapping presents and volunteered Musichetta’s involvement with food which Bahorel agreed to help with. Combeferre and Marius had come up with a few games and Feuilly suggested making Christmas cards. By the time they had gone around the table, a few of them watched Grantaire as he refilled his glass.

‘What?’

‘Are you going to support us?’ Enjolras leaned his elbows onto the table.

‘Yes, of course I will. Feuilly, do you want help with the cards?’

‘Sure, thank you,’ Feuilly grinned widely, ‘Enjolras, what have you planned for entertainment?’

‘I was thinking,’ Enjolras wriggled around on his chair, ‘we could maybe put together a little music group or orchestra, playing Christmas songs and stuff. We should get enough instruments together to pull it off.’

‘That is a good idea, Enjolras,’ Combeferre grinned, ‘if everybody agrees, I will compose a list of instruments we play between all of us.’

‘Wonderful, Ferre,’ Enjolras turned to Grantaire, ‘will you join us? I know you play, I know you play well. Will you support us?’

Grantaire squirmed on his chair, ‘Maybe. If you need me.’

Enjolras’ radiant smile in response to his answer made him believe that, just once, he had made the right call. He continued his meal and the conversation, trying not to think about the likely situation that he would be called to actually play in front of people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say Hello on [Tumblr](https://edgy-fluffball.tumblr.com/)!


	34. Chapter Thirty-Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a playlist going with this story!!!  
> [Enjoy](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2vNJ8oZliBj4PmqQv5fVvP)!!!

Enjolras came to see him a few days later as he primed a few canvases for further use in his studio. He had opened the windows in order to get the gesso smell out of the room immediately. The cold air flooding in made it harder to handle the white sludge but he worked on it nevertheless, music blaring from his speakers on the table. He had finished a couple of smaller canvases and had just about begun priming a large scale canvas, when the door opened.

‘Hey there,’ Grantaire felt the corner of his mouth twitch in an attempt to smile, Enjolras did not need to say much for him to recognise his voice, ‘what are you working on?’

‘Preparing canvases,’ he answered, without looking up, ‘it takes a bit of time and I had nothing else going on.’

‘Finished your shift?’ Enjolras came closer, Grantaire could see his shoes appear at the edge of his peripheral vision.

‘I have. I also finished my lessons for today,’ he grinned, ‘what about you?’

‘Just had a tutor session with Lamarque. We spoke about my next project.’

‘Oh, interesting! What did you come up with?’

‘I need to compose something, can you imagine? Compose something in accordance with a theme Lamarque will come up with.’

‘Sounds pretty neat,’ Grantaire set his brush down and pushed his hair back, ‘I’m sure you’ll smash it.’

‘You have never heard me play anything original.’

‘I have heard you play.’

‘Thank you,’ Enjolras sat down on the divan, ‘I have another question for you, since you were involved in the organisation.’

‘Shoot!’

‘When should we have the Christmas charity?’

Grantaire looked up and met Enjolras’ gaze. He put the brush aside and pushed himself off the ground a little to relieve his knees for a moment.

‘You are serious about that,’ he coughed as he stood up completely and walked over to the divan.

Enjolras looked up at him over crossed arms, ‘You are invested in the matter, it’s only fair for you to be part of the decision. Feuilly and Bahorel suggested the day before the gala. Which means a lot of organisational stress but could be managed.’

‘Do you think you could handle it?’ Grantaire shook his head softly, ‘It is going to be a lot, and you will definitely be nominated. You always are.’

‘That’s easy to say,’ Enjolras scrunched up his nose, ‘rumour around the academy has it that you get nominated almost every year but no one has ever seen you at the gala because you decline it every single time.’

‘Maybe,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘there is no point in me showing up, anyway. The governors would take one look at me and decide to revoke any funding they ever approved.’

‘That’s just your insecurities speaking,’ Enjolras’ cheeks turned a bright pink, ‘I think you should go to the gala next time you’re nominated.’

‘And then what? Me, in my constantly paint-smeared clothes, mop of hair and extra padding? Honestly, I could send better people running than a group of self-indulging, pretentious old men.’

‘Shopping, barber, gym,’ Enjolras pulled his shoulders up, ‘seems like you started working towards a betterment of the situation. I’m sure Courf would gladly take you shopping and to get a haircut.’

Grantaire ran his hands through his hair. The curls bounced back from his fingers and settled against his neck. His hair had grown long enough for him to put his hair up and wear it in a bun, something he had grown accustomed to.

‘Is my hair too long?’ he tried to find an answer in Enjolras’ eyes, ‘it has been growing for a while.’

His fingers found a knot and busied themselves with untangling it. Enjolras shrugged and fumbled with the hem of his jumper.

‘In the end, it’s up to you, of course, but if you are worried about what impression you leave with the governours, you can do something about that. The ball is in your court.’

‘So, charity event on the day before the gala,’ Grantaire cleared his throat, ‘sounds like a sound idea. Get organising, then.’

‘Sure, we’ll all be demanded a lot,’ Enjolras smiled, ‘and it’ll be worth it, in the end.’

Grantaire wished for the same confidence his friend had. It seemed to be one of the things that did not rub off on other people easily, if there was the slightest doubt in their hearts. As it was, however, Grantaire did not feel entirely comfortable in the wake of Enjolras’ blazing enthusiasm.

‘Oh and Grantaire,’ Enjolras got up, ‘could you draw up a sketch for flyers or posters?’

‘Sure,’ Grantaire nodded and fumbled for his sketchbook, ‘I’ll send you pictures later.’

‘Thank you, just don’t make it tacky.’

‘Sure thing,’ Grantaire made a mental note to slip in a suggestion that was made up of glittery objects and everything Christmas, just to piss him off, ‘you’ll have them before tonight.’

***

Their promotion plan for the charity event was rushed but well-organised. Enjolras approved a shiny but untacky version of the Christmas flyer and asked Grantaire to print them. Courfeyrac agreed to help him with both print and distribution of the leaflets. They spent the better part of their after school hours in the printery to produce enough flyers to hand out and put in different places around town. At this point, Courfeyrac had black fingertips and Grantaire sweated in his soft jumper.

_Les Amis_ had offered to take a stack of leaflets each from their hands when they were finished. Courfeyrac set up a corner in the lobby and handed out the first leaflets whilst Grantaire still tidied up the printery. He joined his friends in time to see Joly and Bossuet head off to the coffee shop and Bahorel put his headphones on to put up the flyers at different points en route his usual run.

‘There you are,’ Enjolras beamed at him and held his hand out, as if to welcome him, ‘are you putting flyers up at the museum?’

‘Of course,’ Grantaire took a seat next to Courfeyrac, ‘who’s taking them to the academy?’

‘What would students want with that kind of event?’ Enjolras shook his head softly, ‘We are organising a children’s Christmas charity event.’

‘Doesn’t mean there aren’t kids around the academy.’

‘Grantaire has a point,’ Combeferre pushed his glasses up his nose.

‘Yes, Enjolras, there are students with children, Enjolras. Not everybody waits until they have graduated, Enjolras.’

Enjolras caught his gaze and seemed to evaluate the situation and his words closely. Then, he rolled his eyes but his lips twisted into a grin.

‘Okay, I’ll drop them off at the academy then. Any nurseries you have contacts to?’

‘I could do that,’ Cosette squeezed past Jehan, her hand raised, ‘I did an internship a couple of years ago, I might be able to salvage that.’

‘Gavroche promised to take some to his school,’ Grantaire took a stack and set it aside, ‘tomorrow, he’s leaving with these in his bag.’

‘Let’s hope he doesn’t treat them the way I treated all the letters home to the parents,’ Courfeyrac coughed, ‘Mum pulled them out of my bag after the summer holidays started, along with some moldy school lunches.’

‘Okay, stop the chatter,’ Enjolras clapped and grabbed a few flyers off the table between them, ‘there is work we have to do.’

Grantaire followed his friends out of the academy building into the street. A thin layer of snow had fallen and covered the pavement. They split up on the next corner, Bahorel jogging off, Combeferre disappearing without a word and Courfeyrac bouncing around them until Enjolras cleared his throat and motioned for him to leave as well. Grantaire checked his watch and shrugged.

‘I better get going or the museum is going to run short of a guide around the classics. Apparently, it’s a birthday party.’

‘They really are selling off the whole thing,’ Enjolras shook his head, ‘do they tip you?’

‘If it’s a professor’s birthday, yes.’

They parted ways, walking in opposite directions; both with a destination in mind. Grantaire followed the river, his thoughts jumping from one detail to the next until he reached the museum and slipped into the staff changing rooms.

Once he had changed and put the flyers in place, he could focus on his guided tour through the museum. By the time they had reached the second exhibit, he had managed to get his mind back on track and talk solely about the art in front of them and not the sparkling flyer, the mucked up prototype he had slipped Enjolras, which he had spotted peeking out of his friend’s coat pocket.

***

When he got to leave after another two sets of guided tours, the stack of flyers seemed to have shrunk a little. He doubted many of the people who had taken a leaflet had children or were their target audience for a charity Christmas party but he trusted enough of them had grandchildren or knew people who were in a different situation. Grantaire could, despite everything else and all he would tell Enjolras, if spoken to about it, not help feeling proud. He had placed the flyers and distributed a small amount of them himself to interested parties in his tour audience. The pride to have achieved something filled his chest as he walked home to continue working in his studio and for a moment, he could almost imagine what Enjolras felt whenever he achieved one of his goals.

He heard the voices as soon as he opened the front door. People chatting, laughing. Grantaire followed them, towards the art floor. A suspicion ran down his spine, cold as ice and the realisation that he may have to face a situation, too uncomfortably similar to another. He rounded the corner.

‘There you are! We were waiting for you,’ Enjolras smiled up at him, he sat on the ground next to the studio door.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac sat with Gavroche who, in turn, lowered his head into a book. His friends had gathered outside his studio and everybody seemed to have brought something along. Grantaire climbed over Marius’ legs, a tin of biscuits and a thermos flask to get to the door.

‘This is your call,’ Jehan stepped forward, a hairband with mistletoe stitched to it on their head, ‘you tell us whether we can have a nice Christmassy evening.’

‘I…I have been priming canvases,’ Grantaire said carefully, ‘it might smell in there.’

He unlocked the door, ‘If that doesn’t drive you away, welcome!’

Gavroche jumped onto his feet, scooped his books together and ran past Grantaire to flop down on the divan. He called for Enjolras to help him with his history homework. Jehan carried the biscuit tin and flask, Combeferre and Courfeyrac brought fruitcake and Bahorel held a basket with cups. Marius and Cosette brought sweets and crackers, and Joly and Bossuet had apparently collected pillows.

Only Feuilly stood awkwardly in the hallway.

‘You okay?’ Grantaire stopped the door with one foot.

‘I had a genuine question about your art,’ Feuilly sighed, ‘but now, I belive, I have completely forgotten what it was about.’

He shrugged and walked past Grantaire to steal a few biscuits and join Cosettein humming a few Christmas chorals. Grantaire tried to determine how he felt about playing host to everybody else in his studio but did not feel reluctant at all.

Instead, he put a whiteboard up on his easel for everybody to collect their ideas for the Christmas event, had a few biscuits and joined Gavroche and Enjolras to take part in their political debate. Someone passed him hot chocolade in a mug, Christmas music began to play from his speaker and someone shouted about possible charade and Pictionary games later on.

It felt like Christmas, Grantaire thought, the best he had had in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say Hello on [Tumblr](https://edgy-fluffball.tumblr.com/)!!


End file.
